


The New Prometheus

by Zoeleo



Series: The New Prometheus [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Batfamily Feels, Daddy Issues, Fluff and Angst, Immortality, Jason's potty mouth, Lazarus Pit, M/M, Tim is a NERD when it comes to sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2018-12-05 04:27:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11570304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoeleo/pseuds/Zoeleo
Summary: In the wake of Joker's death, the dynamics of the Batclan are turned upside down. Recovery isn't easy and Tim and Jason struggle to find their place in the family, while exploring their own fledgling relationship. Old tensions rise anew when they finally take up their masks again and Bruce is torn between his morals and the fear of losing his sons further, especially with the reappearance of Willis Todd.Things only get more complicated when Tim is spurred into seeking out R'as Al Ghul to learn more about harnessing the powers of the Lazarus pits and inadvertently drags everyone else into the immortal's twisted web with him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! It's good to be working on this again. There's still a lot of work to be done before I start posting regularly on this, but I couldn't resist letting out a little sneak peek - a reassurance if you will, that this sequel to MDOJT is in fact real and **will** be happening. I'll be playing around with more POV's in this piece based on reader suggestion and feedback from MDOJT. I'm also trying to keep paragraph length down and more manageable as well for the same reason. I hope everyone who followed MDOJT enjoys this as much as they did MDOJT. As always, I love to hear back from you, don't be shy to drop a comment. I rarely bite.

It’s the bottom of the seventh inning. Rod Gaunt of the Gotham Knights rounds first base. Stan Teague of the Star City Stars catches the ball on the bounce up and throws it to the pitcher. Gaunt realizes he’s not going to make it to second and doubles back. His toe hits the plate a split second before first baseman Brent Harker catches the ball. Harker pivots, pushing Gaunt off the plate with his elbow. The indignant roar of the crowd through the tinny TV speakers is matched by the fans flocked around the bar at Sal’s Diner.

“Aw come on, that’s a terrible call!” Will throws down his burger to yell at the television mounted over the bar. He turns to Sal in outrage, “Did you see that? He was safe! Harker pushed him off the plate! That’s an illegal play jackass!” He directs the last comment to the umpire on screen.

The rest of the diner’s patrons groan in shared umbrage. Sal shakes his head, arms crossed over his chest where he’s leaned back against the counter.

“What do you expect with McClelland umping? He’s always had something against the Knights,” Sal grumbles.

“You mean against Gotham,” Lou, the bartender, corrects with a roll of his eyes, “Guy’s been sore ever since his car got flipped after that win against the Pirates for the playoffs back in ’06.”

“That could'a happened anywhere; New York, LA, Chicago. Holding it against the team is unprofessional is what it is,” Sal agrees with a nod before disappearing back into the kitchen during the commercial break. 

Lou snatches up the empty glass in front of Will and drops it in the wash sink with four others he’d picked up from the other end of the bar. 

“Hey, want anything else, man?” Lou asks as he scrubs the glasses and dunks them in the rinse and disinfectant sinks before sitting them out to dry with mechanical efficiency. 

Will considers it. He really could use a shot after that upset. His fingers itch for the solid weight of a shotglass in his hand, the satisfying thunk of its bottom hitting the bartop once emptied. He’s trying though - trying not to fall into those traps. He’s stayed dry for decades before. He can do it again now. 

“No thanks.” 

He quirks his lips up into something that’s not quite a smile and stares at his plate with his half-eaten burger and handful of thick-cut fries. He dips a fry into a little dish of an orangey-pink sauce on the side. Christ it’s delicious. He has no idea what’s in it other than a healthy helping of mayonnaise. Sal guards the recipe like it’s his virgin daughter’s virtue. Better than. Will has met Sal’s daughter. 

He takes up his burger again. Empires rise and fall. Good men and evil men make their mark on the world then fade into myth. Wars break out for the same old reasons in a never ending cycle. Even technology stutters in its progress. But the one constant he’s observed in his long life is that the food improves with every century. Or at least the food available to common people. If someone told him back in the 12th Century that one day you’d be able to walk into a store and have strawberries in February… He’d laugh in their face. He still huffs in incredulity when faced with shelves of _salt_. 

The customers that leapt out of their seats and off bar stools gradually settle down and sink back into place. Their offense is briefly reignited when the commercials end and the game returns with a wave of slow-motion replays of the last out but that eventually dwindles as well. Otherwise he might not have heard the slight rush of air and accompanying breeze of the door swinging open. The scent of rain cuts through the heavy weight of fry oil. His gaze flicks to the entrance on habit and he tenses at the bulky frame of the man filling the doorway. _Sard._

Water rolls down Jason’s face and beads on the shoulders of his leather jacket. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides, there’s a tic in his jaw, and his brows are drawn into a tight serious line. His eyes snap back and forth, quickly sifting through the denizens of the bar. They land on Will within seconds. Jason crosses the distance in two long purposeful strides. The crutches and cane are gone. Will wouldn’t even notice the slight limp if he wasn’t looking for it. 

Jason plows his fist into Will’s face without preamble. Will sees it coming, but with burger in hand and wedged between the two barflies on either side of him, he doesn’t have much room to dodge. He could drop the burger, grab Jason’s wrist, twist, pick up and slam his neighbor’s beer glass into Jason’s temple, but he won’t hurt his son. Not even in self defense. He deserves this. He turns his head though, just enough that instead of breaking his nose Jason’s knuckles drive into his cheekbone and glance over his eye. 

He knows it’s coming but _God’s bones_ , he is taken by surprise by the sheer force behind it. The stool skitters a few inches under him and the bar counter digs painfully into his back. He has to catch himself to not spill onto the ground. Jason is yelling something. Screaming really, but Will’s ears are ringing and he can’t quite focus on more than every third word. 

_“You fucking son of a—The fuck you think you’re playing at?—How could you—To her—To me—Jesus fuck—Any idea—We went through?—Thought you were dead you sack of shit—I wish you were—Bastard—Selfish prick—Waltz back here and—Changes nothing! Nothing!—Don’t need you—Not then, not now—“_

He gets the gist though.

_“You might think you’re my father, but you’re not! Hear me? You’re not!”_

He blinks, trying to dispel the white and black pinpricks swirling through his vision. Heat blooms across the left side of his face where blood vessels burst under his skin and his eye rapidly starts swelling shut. 

Movement in his periphery and a sudden increase in volume bring him back to the situation at hand. A few of the braver bar patrons are trying to grab Jason and wrestle him down, but even angry and sloppy his son is too well trained for that and throws them off. Lou ducks down behind the bar and comes back up with a baseball bat. Sal runs out from the kitchen wielding a meat tenderizer. This is getting out of hand. Even if Jason doesn’t get hurt, someone else certainly will and the last thing either of them needs is a run-in with the GCPD.

“Stop!” he shouts over the din and stands.

He waves emphatically at Lou to drop the bat and latches on to the counter when he’s hit with a wave of dizziness. 

“Stop it! It’s alright— _It’s alright._ Let him go,” Will growls. 

Rob and Paul release their fistfuls of Jason’s jacket, but they don’t look happy about. Jason glares at them as he jerks the bunched up leather back into place.

Will makes a face at the owner. “And for the love of Pete, drop the hammer Sal.”

Sal’s eyes track back to him, he’s still got the steel meat tenderizer raised threateningly over his head. 

“You sure ‘bout that Will?”

Will nods tiredly. 

“He’s family,” Will explains with a sigh, “and I deserved that.”

“We’re not family,” Jason snarls.

Sal lowers the tool but jabs Jason in the chest with it. “Well I don’t care who the hell you are, you don’t come into my place like that and start throwing punches at my customers. You ever come back here like that again and I’m calling the cops on your punk-ass. _After_ I lay you out on the floor, boy. I don’t care if he deserves it or not,” Sal finishes, pointing in Will’s direction. “Now get the fuck out of my restaurant!”

Jason deflates under the admonishment, an embarrassed flush on his cheeks. He quickly covers it with a sneer. He takes a step back. 

“Fine, fine. I’ll go. I’ve fucking said my piece to this shit stain. I’m done here. I’m leaving.” He holds his arms up, palms open in surrender, and turns to walk out.

“Jason, wait,” Will calls to his back, “I know it doesn’t mean much, but I’m sorry. If you ever need anything—anything—You know where to find me.”

Jason doesn’t spare him a backward glance, just tosses a middle finger up over his shoulder before disappearing into the night. A good father would probably chase him down, force him to listen to his heartfelt apology, and promise to never leave him again. But Willis Todd has never been a good father. At this point it’s probably too late to start. He slumps back down on his stool heavily.

Sal hands him a slab of beef wordlessly. Will grimaces and raises it to his throbbing cheek. It’s cool on his heated skin and he lets out a sigh. Lou appears at his elbow. He’s switched out the baseball bat for a bottle of Johnnie Walker. 

“How about that drink now?” the bartender asks.

“Yeah, fill her up.”

He downs the shot then snorts into the bottom of the glass. Lou raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Kid hits like a freight train,” he chuckles, something like pride in his voice.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hallo friends! I know a lot you were looking forward to the Jay and Tim being in an established relationship now aspect of this fic, so I really hope you enjoy this slice of domestic fluff -- and whoops my hand slipped and there's a hint of porn at the end. BottomJason! is heavily implied, if you aren't fans of that you may want to stop reading at Tim saying "Let me take care of you tonight." (If it's any consolation Jason does get to top later - We're equal opportunity switch enthusiasts here!) Tim is a giant NERD. Get ready for the sexiest anatomy lesson ever. 
> 
> As always, comments are loved, cherished, and hoarded!
> 
> Oh and if you see any mistakes, let me know so I can fix them. This went through 3 edits but I never got it beta-read.

 

 

** Chapter 2 **

 

 

“Lucy. _Lucy stop_.”

Tim shoves ineffectually at the cat walking across his keyboard. He doesn’t know how she does it. He pushes and she just flows around his attempts; spine curving, belly dipping, stepping over his hands. He leans back and crosses his arms when she triumphantly sprawls over the laptop. ‘ _hhhhhhhjjjhhhhhhjhhhkkkhhhhhhh_ ’ appears on the screen behind her in the line of code he was writing.

“You are a monster,” he informs her matter-of-factly.

Once they had recuperated enough to leave the manor, Jason had decided it was time to finally name her. Somehow, her walnut-sized cat brain cottoned on to this, and upon being dubbed Lucretia Lucylions she evolved into her final form; a royal pain in the ass. A shedding, attention-hungry, pain in the ass with adorable pink toe-beans and surprisingly soft fur now that they’ve started brushing her regularly. She’s officially become a permanent installation in the house. (Every once in a while his brain traitorously forgets to categorize her as a biological installation, and slips into thinking of her as a member of the household. But that would imply that he, Jason, and Lucy have formed some kind of tiny tightly-knit _family_ , and that would be taking things too far)

She mewls up at him. He glares. She rolls upside down, exposing her belly and purrs.

“I hate you.”

It’s a lost battle. He sighs and reaches forward to scratch her chin. Her eyes narrow to pleased slits. The purr grows into a chainsaw growl. It’s cut short by the slam of the front door. Lucy flips herself off the laptop and streaks into the bedroom.

“Jason?” Tim calls out, concerned with the violent banging of cabinets and heavy footsteps.

He waits five minutes until the sounds lose their ferocity before he closes the laptop and sets it aside. He walks into the kitchen to find Jason rabidly dicing an onion. A pepper, carrot, and celery wait their turn in a line across the counter. Tim’s eyes dart to his watch. At nine-thirty it’s a bit late for dinner. He doesn’t bring that up. Cooking is on the list of suggested redirection activities Jason and his therapist, Dr. Thibault, had put together.

Instead he asks, “So, what are you making?”

The knife pauses. Jason’s eyes lose some of their manic intensity. He blinks at the ingredients he’s gathered with surprise, like he hadn’t paid much attention to what he’d been grabbing at the time. Tim watches Jason think, running the assembled vegetables through various recipe permutations like plugging a set of values into different formulas. He can see the moment Jason arrives at the solution; the angry hunch of his shoulders straightens into something with purpose.

“Dirty rice,” he mutters and refocuses on chopping the carrot into tiny confetti-sized pieces. “There’s some sage sausage in the fridge. Bottom drawer. Can you get that out? And the butter.”

Tim quickly complies. He leans past Jason, brushing against his side to turn on the stereo. The warm tones of Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrel singing _Ain’t No Mountain High Enough_ fill the kitchen. Tim acts as sous chef, falling easily into the role as he follows Jason’s orders. It’s a comfortable dance they’ve established in the past few months. He doesn’t cook, but he pulls the pots, pans, spices, and utensils Jason asks for so that they’re ready for him when the dicing frenzy is done. Sure enough, by the time song ends and Jason gets to the celery his movements have eased into more methodical motions.

Their life is a series of compromises and the next song that comes up is one from Tim’s playlist: Capitol Cities’ _Safe and Sound_. Jason scrapes the last of the vegetable bits into a large glass mixing bowl and lets the knife clatter to the counter with a sigh. Tim sets his chin on Jason’s shoulder and rubs at the tense muscles in the back of his neck.

“You okay?” he asks gently.

Jason nods jerkily, “Yeah. Just… Y’know.”

Tim doesn’t know. But he does know that Jason’s not ready to talk about it yet. He’ll wait until after dinner to ask again. He’s slowly learning when to push and when not to push. He pecks Jason on the nape of his neck and retreats back to work on the new operating system he’s been toggling with for Jason’s helmet. He switches seats to keep Jason in his periphery, looking up every few moments when something sizzles or steams.

"Smells good!" Tim shouts when the sausage hits the pan.

Jason grumbles something unintelligible in reply. Tim grins. He likes the noises they make. The clack of keys and the sounds coming from the kitchen combined and underwritten by the stereo playing softly in the background. It’s constant and present without being loud - so different than the empty echoing halls of the Drake estate. Or even the manor. It feels like…

 _Home_.

Twenty minutes later he hears the rattle of dishes on the small pine table they eat at in the kitchen. Jason’s already slumped in a chair, knees sprawled wide when Tim joins him. He leans over the bowl in front of him and breathes in, inhaling the warm spicy scent.

“Thanks for making dinner.” Tim aims a small smile at the larger man.

Jason grunts and flicks a spoon in Tim’s direction. He picks it up and scoops a bite of rice and veggies with it.

“Mm, wow. This is really good!” Tim says around a mouthful.

Oh if only his mother could see him now: eating dinner in the _kitchen_ , in a house smaller than the _kitchen_ back at the estate, talking with food in his mouth, to his _boy_ friend in a scuffed leather jacket and bruised knuckles. Tim narrows his eyes at the bruised knuckles. He tilts his head.

Jason sinks even further into his chair under his gaze. He picks up his spoon and plays with it, but doesn’t dig in. That would be enough, even without the angry entrance and substitution of grunts and sighs for words, to know something was really wrong. Jason doesn’t _not_ eat. He eats when he’s happy, he eats when he’s frustrated, he’ll destroy a pint of ice-cream on his own when he’s sad. Not eating is _Tim’s_ thing.

“Hey, Jay. What’s up?”

Jason closes his eyes and tosses the spoon down. He tilts his chair back from the table in a way Alfred would scold him for and scrubs a hand through his hair.

“I fucked up,” he grits out.

Tim raises his eyebrows.

“What did you do?”

Jason releases an aggravated groan that sounds like it should be coming from a teenager asked to clean their room.

“I got angry and I punched someone. I’m sorry. I know I’m not supposed to. I know it’s not on the list, but it was raining too much to go for a run or work on the deck and I should’ve just baked a fucking pie or something but I couldn’t help it this time,” the words gush out like water from a faucet set on full blast.

“Who did you punch?” Tim asks, because its so much easier to get Jason to answer direct questions than open ended _whys?_

The chair crashes back down to the floor.

“Will. Willis. Whatever the fuck he’s calling himself now,” Jason spits.

“Ah.”

Tim mulls it over. Dr. Thibault wouldn’t be pleased. There was a reason sparring and going to the range weren’t on the approved list of redirection activities. Even though they were potentially good avenues for blowing off steam, Dr. Thibault and Jason together had decided it would be best not to encourage a subconscious connection between any forms of violence as a coping mechanism. Tim had been very proud of Jason that day.

On the other hand: _Will_. Try as he may, Tim cannot drum up an ounce of reproof towards Jason giving his estranged father a shiner. The man definitely deserved it. Tim wouldn’t mind having a go at Willis Todd himself. He had hoped the man would have gonads to approach Jason; to apologize and atone for years of abandonment. He had been disappointed.

At least Bruce had had the balls to admit he hadn’t been the one to save Jason in that subway tunnel, that he choked at the crossroads of his son’s life and his morals. Tim remembers waiting for the screaming match to start, sitting out of view in the hallway. There had been only eerie silence. Then the door squeaked open and Bruce fled down the hallway too quickly for Tim to see his face, but he caught the tick of an elbow as Bruce lifted his hand towards his eyes. He’ll never forget the dull dead look on Jason’s face when he slipped inside after.

_“God, you know—at this point, I don’t know why I’m even fucking surprised,” Jason grinned at him through trembling lips. “So if it wasn’t that fat failure, who was it that did the pasty freak in, huh?"_

Tim had held him while his brittle laughter turned into screams of endless hurt and impotent rage smothered into the mattress. They’d left the next day. Dick and Alfred helped them pack and Stephanie had picked them up. Tim wasn’t about to call an Uber again any time soon.

“You know,” Tim starts carefully, “I think this might be one instance even Dr. Thibault wouldn’t fault you for. I certainly don’t. But you should definitely bring it up with her in your next appointment.”

Jason’s head tips up in surprise. “You don’t?”

“I’m still kind of wishing I had punched him last time I saw him,” Tim admits.

“If you ever do, let me know. I wanna see that.”

“I’ll try to make sure I do it in front of a camera. Oracle can capture it for posterity’s sake,” Tim jokes.

Jason snorts and looks down at his rice. He pushes his spoon around the bowl aimlessly and grimaces.

“Are you okay?” Tim asks, dropping the cheery façade.

Jason shoves the dish away and buries his face in his hands.

“I don’t feel bad for it. Punching him, I mean,” Jason talks through his fingers, “Asshole deserved it. I still cant—After everything he did. I can’t forgive him. I don’t want to. He let us think he was dead. But no, he was out there alive and not giving a shit while I was eating out of goddamn _dumpsters_. I don’t feel bad for what I did. But—”

He raises his head and he looks so fracking heartbroken Tim is tempted to get up and walk around the table that instant to hug him. Dick would. Tim is not Dick, and not everything can be solved with a hug.

“But?” he prompts, instead.

“But…” Jason takes a breath, “PT was shitty today. Miss Lu wasn’t there. Receptionist said she got short-breathed at an employee party and was at the cardiologist. Got some gym-rat looking dude instead, he kept trying to tell me I needed another cortisone injection in my knee. Anyway, it was a shit day. I just really wanted grab a burger and a beer and stopped by Sal’s when I ran into World’s Worst Dad: the original model.”

Jason tilts his head back over the top slat of the chair, neck arched dramatically. His arms lay limp and lifeless at his sides, so long his fingertips almost brush the floor.

“And I may have gotten kicked out and banned from Sal’s,” Jason finishes wearily.

“You _what?_ ” Tim yelps.

Jason flings an arm up and covers his face once again.

“Jayyyy, nooooo. They have the best fries there, and that sauce…” Tim whines mournfully.

“I’m sorry,” Jason’s voice is muffled by his elbow but Tim hears the underlying sniff.

Tim is caught between exasperation and amusement at the ridiculousness of a full-grown man sniffling over a burger joint. He’s not being fair. He knows it’s not just about burgers.

“Hands on the table,” he sighs, “Let me see those knuckles.”

He gets up to retrieve the first aid kit from the bathroom and the sound of palms slapping against wood follows him. When he comes back Jason has both hands splayed on the table. Tim’s finally stopped flinching at the sight of the shortened stubs on Jason’s right hand. He picks up the left hand and brings it closer to his face for inspection. The damage is minimal, mostly bruising, but the skin is split across the most prominent middle knuckle.

Tim swabs it with disinfectant, then blows air over the scrape gently to soften the sting. Busted knuckles are common enough in their line of work that Jason has a whole box of specialty band-aids for the purpose. Tim pulls one out and peels off the waxy backing. He takes his time to align it perfectly before pressing it down against Jason’s skin. He runs his fingers over the strips to make sure it adheres well and pecks a quick kiss to the top.

Impulsively he grabs Jason’s other hand and kisses it in the same spot. He reverently ghosts the pads of his thumbs across the bumps and divots between Jason’s fingers. He still can’t believe he gets to do things like this now. When he looks up Jason is watching him. His jaw is tight but his eyes are wide. Tim wonders if he’s thinking the same thing.

“Let me take care of you tonight?” he asks, voice unintentionally dipping low.

He watches Jason’s chest rise and fall. In the background the music switches again, from Blue Oyster Cult to Bedouin Soundclash.

“Okay.”

It’s a whisper that sounds like a confession. So quiet Tim might have imagined it if he hadn’t seen Jason’s lips move. Tim stands and circles the table to Jason’s side. He pushes his boyfriend’s curls back from his face and kisses his forehead.

“Clean up here and meet me in the shower?”

“Yeah,” Jason agrees.

Tim leaves the dishes and countertops to Jason while he packs up his laptop and case files and takes the medkit back to the bathroom. He starts up the shower, getting the water hot enough to steam up the mirror. If they were at his apartment he’d fill the tub, but the one in Jason’s house isn’t big enough for the two of them to comfortably fit.

He chuckles at the memory of their first bath together. Jason had stared at him with an expression Tim couldn’t decipher. He didn’t know if it was one of incredulity, derision, or astonishment at the quantity of hygiene products his bathroom was stocked with. Tim had tried to protest that it was all Stephanie’s fault for getting him hooked on the expensive oils, scrubs, and body butters that littered the countertops – but the truth is Tim has always been a tad vain. The sheer amount of gel and pomade he’d experimented with through his teen years to perfect his coiffure was evidence enough.

Jason had rifled through the shelves and cabinets, popping caps and taking whiffs of various tubs and tubes like he was testing for poison. At one point he waggled a painfully pink shimmering bottle in Tim’s face.

_“What is this, Tim?”_

_“Ah, well according to the label that appears to be a bottle of dragon fruit bubble bath.”_

_“Bubble bath?”_

_“Yes, bubble bath.”_

_“Do I want to know?”_

_“Oh my god? You don’t know what bubble bath is? You’ve never had a bubble bath?”_

Half the bottle and twenty minutes later, bubbles were overflowing the tub and encroaching on the toilet while Jason cackled madly from a sea of foam. Tim belatedly understood why Alfred had never given a young Jason access to anything more than the essentials of soap and shampoo.

Tim bites down on a smile as he strips and steps into the shower. He’s mostly clean by the time Jason joins him, but that’s okay because tonight is about his partner, not him. Jason steps into the spray and the effect is instantaneous, shoulders sagging as his muscles relax. Anything that doesn’t ease under the hot water, Tim will take care of later. He takes the bar of soap that’s already in his hands and rubs it over Jason’s skin, working up a nice lather.

It sends a tendril of warmth trickling down from behind his breastbone to his pelvis running his hands over his boyfriend’s body and he’s unsurprised he’s already half-hard when he turns Jason to get to his front. He ignores his own arousal in favor of completing his task. Jason takes more warm-up than Tim’s past partners. While Tim is ready to go at the drop of a hat (or a pair of Wonder Woman briefs), Jason requires some coaxing. If he’s not completely comfortable in the setting, it isn’t happening.

Tim would be lying if he said it didn’t bother him, especially when he can tell 99% of the time Jason’s hesitance comes from overthinking and an appalling lack of self-esteem. Sometimes Tim just wants to grab him, shake him, and scream, _‘Stop doubting yourself, yes I really do want to have sex with you!’_ But he doesn’t begrudge the effort invested in rendering Jason into a boneless heap of quivering pleasure beneath him. In this instance, he finds the journey is just as gratifying as the destination.

He gives special attention to the scars down Jason’s chest. Not for his own sake, but for the other man's. He needs to prove to Jason that they don't bother him, that none of them bothered him. So far, the only way he’s come up with to show that is through persistent simple touch. He doesn’t want give Jason the impression they revolt him by ignoring them, but he also doesn't want to fetishize them. Besides, he’d much rather fetishize Jason’s hair.

Tim sets aside the soap and squirts a generous dollop of shampoo into his hand. He stands on tiptoes to work it into Jason’s hair. Jason closes his eyes and hums under his ministrations. Tim scrubs his fingers over his scalp in expanding whorls, then fashions the suds-laden locks into a mohawk just to make Jason laugh. He loves the way the thick sodden strands feel between his fingers and he cant help but give them a tug. Jason’s head tips back under the pull, baring his throat. Tim wants to suck bruises into it. Later.

_Damnit Tim, stay on target._

Tim guides Jason’s head back under the stream and rakes his fingers through the wet mane to rinse the last of the shampoo from it. He turns off the tap and exits, quickly ties a towel around his waist, then drapes the other one over Jason’s head. He tousles the towel to get the extra water out of Jason’s hair, then works it down over his shoulders, torso, thighs and calves. He looks up and the lazy upward slant of Jason’s mouth brings the pool of warmth in his gut to a boil. He presses a kiss to Jason’s knee and stands.

“Go lay on the bed.”

Jason raises his eyebrows. He points at Tim and enunciates a single word, “Bossy.”

But he follows the command with a smirk and heads into the bedroom. Tim admires the view as he hangs the towels and wipes the drips off the tile floor (if it was just him he’d leave the towels in a soggy pile on the floor, but incurring Jason’s neat-freak wrath is not on the agenda for tonight). There are whole blogs and picstagrams dedicated to Nightwing and Dick Grayson’s asses. In his opinion, neither of them have anything on Jason Todd’s. If only those blogger’s and youtubers knew what lurked beneath that durable tri-weave cotton blend… He’s smugly pleased by his boyfriend’s preference for practical tactical pants wear instead of spandex. It means he’s the only one who gets to appreciate that sight.

Tim stops in front of the nightstand before crawling up on the bed after Jason and grabs the bottle of almond-scented massage oil in the drawer there. He settles himself on Jason’s lower back and dabs just two drops on his hands. He smears the oil on his palms until his hands are faintly coated and combs them through Jason’s curls. He likes the way it makes Jason’s hair glossy and curl more tightly as it dries. Then he squirts more into his hands and drags them over Jason’s neck and shoulders.

He scratches his fingernails just under Jason’s hairline at the semispinalis capitis muscles. Then digs his thumbs into the splenius capitis and splenius cervicus. He curls his hands in the arch between neck and shoulder and clenches, squeezing at the trapezius. Jason groans at that and Tim revels in the sound. He changes tactics now, using the heel of his palm to grind his way down the latissimus dorsi muscles. When he reaches the base of Jason’s spine, he strokes over the thoracolumbar fascia that connects to the tailbone.

His hands hesitate. They want to trace the curve of Jason’s cheeks, spread them and delve inside… But Tim wants Jason in a pliable puddle. So he scoots back and claws his hands down the backs of Jason’s thighs. Faint red stripes rise in their wake. He soothes them over with flat palms and finishes by massaging Jason’s calves.

He nudges Jason onto his back and works his way back up. He lingers at Jason’s knee. It _is_ a bit swollen. The therapist today was probably correct in wanting to administer a cortisone shot, but there was no way Jason was letting anyone other than Miss Lucille or Alfred near him with a needle. Tim swallows a sigh at his boyfriend’s stubbornness and moves on to his favorite part of Jason’s body: his thighs.

Tim puts his weight into kneading the thick layers of muscle there. He uses the blade of his hand to carve into the grooves between the rectus femoris and the vastus lateralis and medialis. He gentles as he moves inward, caressing the gracilis and adductor longus. Jason’s eyes are closed, mouth slightly parted, his face, neck and chest washed with rose. Tim increases the pressure again, keeping a deep firm touch as he massages up into the inguinal valley. Jason’s breath hitches. Tim allows himself to look. Jason’s penis is stiff and flush, pearling at the tip.

_Quest task ‘Intimacy’ completed: Erection achieved, +10 boyfriend points._

“You’re gorgeous,” Tim murmurs into his boyfriend’s skin, “So fracking gorgeous.”

He lowers his mouth to Jason’s hip, grazes his teeth over the bony crest there. Jason shudders from the sensation and Tim takes advantage of his distraction to slick up his hands with more oil. He keeps one hand on Jason, thumb soothing over that line between limb and body, while the other hand drops to his own member.

“Forget Will, forget Bruce. Forget everyone,” he bites into the tender flesh of Jason’s inner thigh possessively. Not hard enough to break the skin, only to bruise, to leave a mark that will fade in a few hours. “It doesn’t matter if you’re good enough for them or not. I’m better than them and you’re everything I’ve ever wanted.”


	3. The Houses of Healing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone. I know it's been a long time, thank you for your patience during the break. It was fun dabbling in side projects but _New Prometheus_ is back in the spotlight now, as top-priority you'll be seeing updates about once a month on the regular from here on out. This chapter is unbeta-ed so if you see any glaring errors or think something could stand to be tweaked, let me know. 
> 
> I hope y'all enjoy this chapter. It's a healthy dose of domestic but should answer a lot of questions posed regarding Jason's thoughts and mental health that have been brought up in the comments of the past couple chapters. 
> 
> Speaking of POVs, how would ya'll feel about a chapter from Steph's POV? I have the plot of next chapter outlined but not roughed out yet - it would potentially be from Tim's POV again or Stephanie's. Thoughts/feelings on expanding the POVs beyond just Jason and Tim?
> 
> Poem is "The Dream Keeper" by Langston Hughes.

 

 

** Chapter 3 **

 

 

He startles awake, pulse sluggish, limbs loose and heavy. His body aches with the memory of pleasure. Not a nightmare then, but there’s the taste of dust on his tongue and the echo of a forgotten word fading in his ears. His eyes dart back and forth blearily beneath lowered lashes, seeking what woke him. He keeps his breaths slow and even, maintaining the illusion of slumber while he peers into the inky corners of the room. Nothing stands out; there are no shadows unaccounted for or objects out of place.

The rustle of sheets and the minute shift of the mattress behind him reminds him he’s not alone. He drops the pretense of sleep and cocks his head back to look over his shoulder.

“Tim?” he whispers.

His voice is half swallowed in hoarse somnolence. He clears his throat and tries again. The younger man doesn’t reply but kicks his feet fretfully, tangling them in the sheets. His hand flies out and slaps over Jason’s stomach, digging into his ribs. Jason bites back a hiss. Tim is stronger than he looks and his bony grip is punishing while obliviously unconscious. Jason instinctually leans forward to pull away, but Tim’s arm around him tightens. It’s followed by the press of lips, nose, and eyelashes against his spine as Tim buries his face into Jason’s back. The whimper smothered into Jason’s skin wipes out any ideas he harbored of scooching out of reach to escape his boyfriend’s clutches.

Instead, he rolls under Tim’s arm to face him. He blinks, eyes adjusting to the lack of light. Tim’s patrician features are twisted; nose scrunched, top lip slightly curled back from his teeth. His eyes are hidden under sweat-damp hair but Jason imagines them screwed tightly shut under drawn brows.

He doesn’t—he doesn’t know what _to do_. Usually Tim is the one coaxing him out of a nightmare. He’s not sure what to do in the reverse scenario. Aside from awkward pats on the back or the rare supporting arm Red Hood occasionally offered to victims in shock, the last person he had truly given care to was his mother. And even that was more along the vein of making sure she’d eaten, slept, and bathed. The times he’d crawled beside her on the sofa and tucked himself under her arm had mostly been for his own consolation.

He finds himself doing the same with Tim. He makes his breakfast, packs his lunch (gotta make sure that he gets three square meals a day, otherwise the kid will just _forget_ to eat), showers at least every other day, and takes regular breaks from his laptop before his retinas detach. He tends to leave it to Tim to initiate anything more than chaste kisses or handholding. That probably makes him a shitty boyfriend, but the whole boyfriend thing is uncharted territory and he’s out of his depth. It’s like being scooped out of the kiddie pool and dropped into the middle of the Atlantic to learn how to swim.

What would Tim do in his place?

Touch. A hand over his heart – its weight warm and comforting, easing the frantic muscle underneath. He worms an arm up between their bodies and lifts a hand towards Tim’s chest. It freezes at the sound of his own name growled from behind Tim’s gritted teeth. Jason swallows, throat catching painfully. Guilt is bitter on the back of his tongue, remembering that same hand sticky with Tim’s blood. Tim laid out helplessly on the floor of Titan’s Tower, choking out stinging truths through swollen lips, his words only stoking the acidic blaze in Jason’s pit-addled brain _higherbrighterhotter_. It hurts more than any bullet he’s ever caught, that he’s the star in his own boyfriend’s nightmares.

It shouldn’t be a surprise. He’s done awful things to the man beside him. Tim may love and care for him with what seems like endless patience during his waking hours, but in his subconscious Jason is still that monster that stalked and beat him with callous brutality. Jason brings his hand back. He bites down hard on it to keep from waking Tim with his sob.

What is he doing here? He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve the forty-seven kisses sealed like a promise, like a claim on the skin at the back of his neck. He needs to leave. Needs to get some space. Clear his head.  
He tries to pull away again, more forcefully this time. His arm reaches out for the nightstand, for the cigarettes resting in the drawer there, when Tim curls closer into him. The wet path of tears catch and reflect the meager light spilling out from under the bathroom door. Tim’s mouth moves, bottom lip dipping up and down. The words drop so quietly Jason stops breathing to hear them.

“ _Sorry. ‘m sorry, Jas’n. Couldn’t save you. ‘m sorry_.”

The air held precariously in Jason’s lungs exits with a rush, and with it the manic need to run. His fingers shake as he splays his palm over Tim’s heart.

“Tim,” he speaks softly, “Tim, babe. Wake up.”

Tim’s eyelashes flutter and peel back. His eyes settle on Jason, damp and unfocused.

“I’m so sorry. I tried. I tried so hard to save you,” Tim mumbles.

He reaches for Jason’s face, clumsy with sleep. Jason takes his hand before it can poke him in the eyes and brings it to his lips. He kisses the pads of those long slim fingers.

“It’s okay. I know. You did it. You did save me. You saved me, Tim,” Jason assures him.

“I—but—Joker,” Tim frowns.

“Hey, I’m here aren’t I?” Jason interposes quickly. “I’m here. You saved me.”

It’s true. Maybe not in the way Tim thinks, but the other Robin has saved him in so many other ways. He’s reminded Jason there’s life outside of the mask; that there are feelings beyond the triumvirate of anger, bitterness and shame. He’s taught Jason how to have _fun_ again, and that he doesn’t have to be alone… Jason pulls Tim against him, almost on top of himself. He cups Tim’s head until it’s pillowed on his chest ear resting over his beating heart, the same way Tim does for him sometimes when his mind fritzes out and locks him inside his own unresponsive body.

“Listen to that. I’m alive, yeah? I’m here. It’s okay. Go back to sleep. I’m here, I’ve—I’ve got you.”

He kisses the crown of Tim’s head and closes his eyes. The younger man has become a steadying presence in his life, an anchor that Jason relies on. But the idea that Tim may need Jason too? It’s simultaneously terrifying and vitalizing. His hands are clammy at the thought, but then Tim hums drowsily and rubs his cheek against Jason’s chest like he’s trying to burrow under his skin and Jason would let him if he could, because holding onto Tim like this, Jason feels wholesome and good.

“ _Bring me all of your dreams,_  
_You dreamer,_  
_Bring me all of your_  
_Heart melodies_  
_That I may wrap them_  
_In a blue cloud-cloth_  
_Away from the too-rough fingers_  
_Of the world_.”

He murmurs into the soft sleep-mussed strands of Tim’s hair. He stays awake long after Tim’s breathing eases into the rhythmic cadence of deep sleep. Only once he’s assured himself that Tim is drifting down Moon River safely distant from the rapids of another nightmare, does he let himself follow suit.

 

 

 

They must shift sometime during the night, because when Jason wakes it’s to the ghost of a kiss on the back of his neck. He smiles into the refuge of his pillow. Forty-eight. That’s forty-eight mornings waking up like this. Forty-eight rays of sunshine saved up.

A finger taps his cheek. “I saw that,” Tim sing-songs in his ear, “Pretend all you want, but I know you’re smiling you big softie. I’m going to go make some coffee, I’ll put the kettle on for you too so it’s ready when you wake up, Sunshine.”

Jason turns his head further into the pillow, growling and throwing up his middle finger out of spite. Tim’s braying laugh fades with his footsteps. Only when Jason’s sure he’s left the room does he roll over onto his back. He stares at the ceiling and listens to Tim putter around in the kitchen, mugs clinking on the counter. Jason can’t believe this is his life, that he gets this.

He’d wanted it as a kid – a warm space of his own, a loving partner, never needing to worry whether there’d be food in the pantry or not. Heck, he’d just wanted to know that something like what he saw on the sitcoms when Cathy left him with their twelve inch cracked-screen TV as a babysitter was even possible. He’d thrown that dream away after his first month on the streets. Then Bruce came along and ruined everything, giving him false hope. Then he’d died. And when he came back, he didn’t even want it anymore.

He loves Tim. He loves these mornings (and nights) they share together. He hadn’t realized how much being alone had been killing him; drying him up from the inside out, organs removed one by one and bags of natron shoved in their place. A kicking, snarling, desiccated, mummified _thing_. These past few months spent building tentative bridges with Tim, with Blondie, Alfred, Jeremy, and Miss Lucille, even with Dick and Damian, had almost felt like putting himself back to together. Every hesitant hug, every night joking around an olio of take out boxes, every session with Dr. Thibault, was like finding a canopic jar buried under centuries worth of sand– twist it open and there was another piece of himself inside that he’d thought he lost.

He'd been truthful with Dick though; he would never be that same boy again. The person he could have grown into died in that warehouse, and as much as Jason enjoys this restful domesticity, it’s not his dream anymore. He’s hungry to get back on the streets. He misses the rush of a good fight. He misses the smack of his boots against the pavement, the whirr of his grappling gun, the recoil on his pistol. He misses the way the city looks at night; neon lights fractured in oil-slick puddles, the heavy taste of exhaust in the air. Red Hood may not have been loved by Gothamites the same way they fell head over ass for Batman and Robin, but he’d been feared, respected, _known_. And damnit if he doesn’t miss that as well.

He’s healing. Any day now he’ll be in the clear to suit up again. Tim has been for a week or so. Jason suspects Tim’s been waiting on him before going out. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t appreciate it. Sitting at home listening to everyone else kicking ass over the comms is a special level of hell; somewhere between eternally rolling great weights back and forth and fighting in the slime of the river Styx.

Jason takes a fortifying breath and shambles out of bed. He’s still nude from the night before. That’s new. He would have never have slept nude before – you never know when a troupe of ninja may barrel through your windows. If he has to fight someone off while half-asleep, he’d rather not do it with his dick swinging free. Something about having Tim nearby though… It makes him feel safer. Logically, it doesn’t make much sense, because then they’d both be hazardously free-balling it – but the idea of not being the only one dick out while fighting off a horde of bloodthirsty assassins is somehow less intimidating?

Besides, Tim seems to appreciate it. Jason scratches his chest, blunt nails catching on the ridges of his scar as he walks to the dresser. He doesn’t quite understand how Tim can look at him, all of him, and not be even the littlest bit disgusted when Jason’s own reflection still makes him gag on occasion. Then again, when Tim sees it he’s not the one hearing the _snikt_ of scissors snipping through his flesh, watching them shear through his belly, tasting bile on—

Jason’s knuckles blanch on the dresser drawer handle. Shirt. Shirt, first. Always. Even before underwear. He wrenches the top drawer open. Inside are three stacks of shirts. On the left is a neat stack of white t-shirts, and then a neat stack of black t-shirts; plain and straight out of a six pack from Family Dollar. He looks at the third stack. He hasn’t bought a single shirt in that stack.

It started with Blondie. They were in a Goodwill trying to find a Fry Daddy and commiserating on significant others who had no idea how to bargain hunt, when Blondie had snickered and pulled a t-shirt off the rack with “ _Free Tickets to the Gun Show_ ” emblazoned across the front in red letters. “I’m buying you this,” she had informed him, leaving no room for argument. So of course he’d worn it. He had to prove he couldn’t be cowed or embarrassed in this friendly battle of one-upmanship they’d developed.

Then everything had spiraled out of control. A week later he met Tim for lunch at the mall food court and Tim had wordlessly shoved a Hot Topic bag at him across the table, “ _Zombies Eat Brains – Don’t worry, you’re safe_ ”. Then Dick had shown up to pizza night at Grotto’s and tried to get in on the joke by sliding him a horrendously lumpy package with a green “ _Little Brothers get Luigi_ ” shirt inside. He has yet to wear that one. He’s still not sure where the “ _Purrassic Park_ ” shirt came from, it simply magically appeared in his drawer one day, but he suspects Barbie is responsible for the “ _Misuse of ‘Literally’ Makes Me Figuratively Insane_ ” shirt.

He grabs the top shirt off the right stack and pulls it over his head with a huff. When he walks into the living room, Tim spits his coffee back into his mug. Jason looks down at the black cotton, “ _You’re Lucky I’m Not Wearing My Tactleneck_ ,” and raises an eyebrow.

“You know, I don’t even get this one?” Jason deadpans, “What the fuck is a ‘tactleneck?’”

Tim sets his coffee down before he spills it all over himself shaking with laughter.

“It’s a—a turtle—a tactical turtleneck,” he wheezes mirthfully.

Jason ignores his spasming boyfriend, brushing past him to stovetop where a ready kettle of hot water and an empty mug wait as promised. He pulls a tea bag from a tin of Earl Grey and dunks it in, watching deep russet swirl out to tint the whole infusion.

“Yeah, still don’t get it,” he says and blows curls of steam off the surface of his drink.

He sets it aside to steep and opens the fridge. He grabs the yogurt and rolls his eyes at the face Tim makes, but pulls out the carton of strawberries as well. Jason doctors the yogurt with enough strawberries, granola, and honey to disguise all taste of the yogurt itself before handing it to Tim. Tim blows him a kiss and all Jason can think about while watching his boyfriend try to dig out the chunks of strawberries first it that Tim would have died after a week on the streets. No way his nitpicky beau-wonder would have survived on less-spoiled scraps picked out of restaurant waste.

“It’s from TV show called Archer,” Tim explains while Jason makes up his own bowl, “It’s this animated show about a spy, and it basically makes fun of every James Bond trope there is. It’s full of smart-ass one-liners. You’d love it. I’ll add it to the queue.”

Jason puts his yogurt to wait next to his tea. He’ll eat later once Tim heads out, but first he snatches Tim’s lunchbox from under the counter and ducks back to look in the fridge. He grabs two tupperwares from the middle shelf and holds them up.

“Hey, for lunch: do you want leftover lasagna?” he asks, shaking the tub in his left hand. “Or left over chicken barbecue?” He shakes the tub in his right.

Tim sucks on his spoon and considers. He pulls the spoon out with a ‘pop’ and points it at the tub on the right.

“Chicken.”

“Alrighty.”

Jason puts the lasagna back and packs the chicken into Tim’s lunchbox with a knife and fork. He tosses in some napkins and a cold pack too, because he likes doing nice things for his boyfriend. But he also likes to keep Tim on his toes (spatial awareness is life-or-death for vigilantes after all) so he chucks the packed lunchbox at Tim’s head to test his reflexes. Tim squawks but catches it before it caves his face in.

“What the hell, Jason?!”

Jason shrugs and hums blandly. Tim grumbles and dumps his empty bowl in the sink, exchanging it for his lunchbox and backpack. Jason follows him to the door, a smile tucked in at the corner of his mouth. Tim looks every part the business man in his slacks and suit jacket, except for the backpack; preferring to haul all of his files and laptop around in the faded red rucksack covered with band patches than upgrading to a briefcase.

Jason stays in the doorway, one hand on the frame. Any second now Tim will half-turn for Jason to give him a dry good-bye peck. Perfunctory, sweet, and passionless. He turns and Jason impetuously bounces forward, grabbing Tim by the straps of his backpack. He pulls Tim against him and slides one hand to cup the back of his neck, pulling him in for a deep kiss. Jason takes advantage of Tim’s surprise to slide his tongue into Tim’s mouth. He feels the shudder that runs through Tim and then he’s reciprocating, sucking on Jason’s tongue with a moan. He pulls back and Tim’s eyes are glassy, a dumb grin on his spit-slick lips. Jason feels a thrill of pride that he’s been able to make the unflappable Timothy Drake-Wayne look that way.

“What was that for?”

“Thanks for last night,” Jason whispers into his ear, “And because I wanted to. Because I want you.”

Tim groans, “ _Fraaaaaaccckk_. How am I supposed to go to work after that?”

“Call out?” Jason suggests playfully.

“I wish.” Tim’s face screws up. “Guh. If I didn’t have a meeting with the investors from Tokyo, I would in a heartbeat.”

His hands wander down and give Jason’s ass a light squeeze, “But if you really want I could—”

Jason shifts forward; a breathless moan perched on his lips, like a diver ready to flip backwards off a boat. He could do it. He could convince Tim to stay if he wanted to. All it would take is one tiny push and Tim would fall back into bed with him and Jason could start making up for all those times he’s left it to Tim to take the lead. And then he could put off the thoughts Tim’s hands had kneaded out of his cable taut body last night for another day. It’s tempting. He swallows the moan and steps back.

“Nah, you go ahead and be the big boss-man. Bring home the bacon and all that.”

He kisses Tim again, chaste once again, and pushes him towards the driveway. Tim stumbles over his feet towards his car. He gives Jason a wobbly giddy wave.

“When I get back, we are picking up where that left off!” he hollers over the roof of the Maserati before he scrambles inside.

Jason chuckles and watches his boyfriend’s car until it disappears around a turn. When he looks up, old Mrs. Grainger from across the street is staring goggle-eyed at him. She’s got a hand over her heart and Jason hopes to hell that the biddy isn’t having a heart attack. He stares back, scowling. Seconds pass and she doesn’t keel over so he backs inside and closes the door.

He walks into the kitchen and snags his yogurt and tea from the counter, carrying them with him to the couch. Lucy immediately jumps up on to the sofa, sniffing the air with interest. He dips his fingertip into the yogurt and holds it out to her. She sniffs it delicately and then licks, her prickly tongue scraping it from the minute whorls of his skin. Once it’s clean she stretches her neck out trying to press closer. He claps his hand over her head and pushes away.

“Nope. That’s all you’re getting Luce. Rest is mine.”

He eats the bowl one-handed, using the other as a cat shield until he finishes. He takes a sip of his tea and it’s warm but lacks the edge of heat a perfect cup has. He’s left it too long. Disappointing. He fishes around under the couch for his civilian laptop and props it on his knees. He flicks it with his finger a few times, listening to his nail pop against the plastic. He’s stalling.

He hates this. He’d much rather suppress all of the crap swirling around his skull into the deepest darkest corner he can find and pretend it’s not there at all. Except, that’s never really worked for him in the past has it? In the end it comes back to bite him in the ass with twice the venom and fifty times the property damage. As much as he hates it, the therapy has helped. He just wishes there was a way to reap its benefits without actually having to voice his vulnerabilities out loud.

He growls and scrubs a hand over his eyes, raking it all the way back through his hair. He takes a long drink from his tepid tea and cracks open the laptop. He jitters his leg, bouncing the laptop while it trills, waiting for Dr. Thibault to accept the video call. The black square pixelates and then Dr. Thibault is smiling back at him.

“Hello Jason! This is a surprise. Is everything okay?” she asks, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose and combing a stray chestnut curl behind her ear.

“Hey Dr. T. Uh, yeah. But. Maybe? I kinda… Fuck. Are you free to talk? I didn’t think before I—I know you have other clients. I can just wait til our next appointment. I didn’t mean to—If you’re busy it’s fine—”

Dr. Thibault laughs. It’s warm and feminine and sets him at ease. Once he had made the decision to try therapy, he’d then been left with the challenge of selecting a therapist. He flat-out refused to see Dinah or anyone else Bruce tried to recommend via Alfred. He wasn’t letting his personal issues within a Canary’s Cry of anyone affiliated with the Justice League, doctor-patient confidentiality be damned. All he needed was someone who wasn’t secretly a villain in disguise, and who he wouldn’t be tempted to punch.

Dr. Thibault’s name had been passed on to him by Miss Lucille and he could not imagine ever wanting to punch her in the face. In her mid-thirties, she was younger and prettier than he had expected, with curly brown hair and a smattering of freckles over her cheeks. She was smart yet approachable, friendly in a ‘do no harm, but take no shit’ way. He liked that she kept a fish tank in her office. In those moments where he couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eyes, he watched the fish instead and it made it easier for the words to come.

At first Dick and Alfred had expressed concern that someone outside the hero community may not be the best equipped to handle a vigilante’s specific brand of issues. Jason thought they gave the mask too much credit. Like it had been the scaly shorts that fucked him up more than anything else. Yeah, right.

“It’s okay Jason, my next client appointment isn’t for another thirty minutes. I was just working on some reports in the mean time, but I can definitely save those for later if you want to talk.”

She shuffles the papers that had been spread out before her into a neat pile and sets that to the side. Then she gets up and moves to the filing cabinet behind her, rifling through manila folders before retrieving the one with the pseudonym for the identity Barbie had set him up with.

“So, what’s going on?” she asks.

“You know how—you know how my birth dad ran out on me and my mom?”

“Yes. Only in passing though. We’ve talked more about your mother and your adoptive father. I know you thought he was dead up until recently. Did he try to contact you?”

God bless Dr. T for making everything sound so damn objective. Jason laughs and his is far from warm (or feminine).

“Ha, yeah about that. I um. I kind of punched him in the face. I ran into him at this bar. I wasn’t looking for him. Not exactly. But I guess I knew there was a good chance he’d be there. Because he’s the one who first took me there. Back when I just thought he was an Uber driver and…”

Dr. Thibault cocks her head to the side, “So you’ve been in contact with him before now?”

Jason puts down the cold cup of tea so he can scrape his hands through his hair.

“Yeah. I didn’t know who he was though. He was just some guy I met and sometimes we watched baseball games at the bar. I didn’t know until Tim told me a couple months ago. He’s the one that figured it out. Because he’s not a fucking idiot like I am.”

He tightens his fists and tugs until his scalp stings.

“Jason,” Dr. Thibault reprimands him gently.

He lets go of his hair and his hands thunk into his lap.

“That must have been quite a shock. Are you okay?”

 _Are you okay?_ The question throws him.

“Am I—? Yeah, I’m fine. I mean, my knuckles are a little busted. But I’m the one that hit him. I know that’s not how I’m supposed to deal with things. I didn’t do any of the things we put on the list. I screwed up. And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now,” he confesses.

“Is that why you called me today?” Dr. Thibault frowns. “To apologize for not sticking to the list?”

“Um, yeah?”

Dr. Thibault raises her glasses to rub at the bridge of her nose and sighs.

“Jason, it’s okay to mess up. I’m not going to be mad at you because you were put in a difficult situation and lashed out at someone who hurt you. Those methods we wrote down are meant to help, but they’re not law and you’re not a failure because they didn’t work this one time. Think of it more like… Like a diet. Okay, so you slipped up and had an ice-cream binge, but that doesn’t mean you give up on the whole diet. You acknowledge what happened and then you move on and try your best to keep making healthy choices.

"Honestly, I’m more concerned that’s what you fixated on rather than the fact that a man, with whom it sounds like you had developed a friendship with, turned out to be your father who supposedly died years ago. I hear a lot of crazy things in this job but that’s—that’s a biggie. How do you feel about that? Are you okay?”

And there’s that question again: _are you okay?_ Jason sits there flummoxed.

“I—I don’t know, I—”

Too many thoughts and feelings tumble over each other. He’s pissed and hurt and confused. Willis had abandoned him. Abandoned them. It was his fault Cathy fell apart. If he had been there she wouldn’t have died and Jason wouldn’t have ended up homeless at age ten. Everything that had happened to Jason on the streets… He _hates_ him. He hates him for not being there when he needed him.

And he doesn’t understand why he’s here now. What does he want from Jason? Why didn’t he tell Jason who he was? Why did Jason have to hear it from Tim? Was he that ashamed to claim him as his son? Had Will really been that mortified to find his son was some foul-mouthed crippled vigilante living in a four-room house out in Robbinsville instead of a heart surgeon with a loft in the Diamond District?

If so, then why pretend to be his friend? Why take him out for burgers and watch baseball games with him? He’d fucking liked Will. He’d liked having someone to gab about stupid crass things with. Someone he could just relax around without having to watch his mouth. And he’d thought Will had liked him back but now—had he just been hanging out to gather intel? To keep tabs on his estranged son? Had he ever even fucking cared?

 _But he killed the Joker for you_. So he had to have cared, right? At least a little bit? Enough to do that one thing he’d wished, begged, Bruce to do… Except, Bruce was the one who was supposed to have done the fucking clown in. _It should have been Bruce._ Bruce didn’t love him enough to kill the Joker, and Will didn’t love him enough to do anything but. What was even the point of killing Joker just to abandon Jason all over again? He hadn’t called, hadn’t visited, in those weeks while Jason recovered with tubes up his nose and arms while his stomach and intestines slowly stitched themselves back together, or in any of the weeks that followed.

_And why wouldn’t he with a son like you? You’re an embarrassment. You find out he’s your father and the first thing you do is attack him and throw a tantrum in the middle of Sal’s like a child._

“I want to hate him—I mean, I do… I do hate him. Them. Both of them, they—I’m never enough. Why am I never enough?”

“Jason, Jason. Calm down,” Dr. Thibault commands with sympathetic authority, “You’re working yourself up. Clearly this is stirring up a lot of bad thoughts and bad memories, not just regarding your birth father but your adoptive one as well. I know it’s hard but you can’t let those feelings get the best of you. I want you to do a couple of things for me, okay? Are you listening?”

Jason digs the heels of his palms into his eye sockets until he sees starbursts and nods. Dr. Thibault waits for him to make eye contact before continuing.

“Okay. I want you to make a list. Make a list of five reasons you’re upset with your birth father. Putting it down on paper will help sort some of that chaos going on in your head right now. Once you get it organized it won’t be nearly as overwhelming. But you have to keep it to five, just the top five reasons. Let go of the rest or you’ll suffocate under all that weight. Make that list and we’ll go over it at our next appointment, alright?”

Jason nods again.

“Good. And after you do that. I want you to fill out a worksheet for me. I’m emailing it and the instructions for it to you right now.”

Jason’s email pings when it arrives in his inbox. He opens up a pdf file and cocks his eyebrow at the line drawing of a three-story house with a door, welcome mat, and chimney.

“Uh. No offense Dr. T, but this looks a little third-grade. What am I supposed to do? Color it in?”

Dr. Thibault laughs unoffendedly, “It’s called a DBT house and it _is_ a little third-grade, but it’s a helpful tool as well. Look Jason, I know things are tough and confusing with your fathers right now. It might always be that way. But it’s important for you to know that no matter how things go with them, you’re are worth something and you’ve still got a support system. Visualizing it like this is a great way to recognize and remember that.”

Her eyes flick to something off-screen. “Hey, Jason, my nine o’clock is here. I’m sorry but I have to go. Read the instructions, fill it out, and remember you have more people rooting for you than you think. Including me.”

“Thanks Dr. T,” Jason replies with genuine gratitude before the video chat goes black.

On the coffee table, Lucy has her head buried in the discarded yogurt bowl. Sensing his attention on her she whips her head out, yellow eyes wide and yogurt clinging to her whiskers. Jason sighs.

 

 

+++

 

 

Jason is sitting in the back yard when Tim gets home. He’s got his long legs stretched out in front of him, shreds of grass clinging to the dark hair that curls down his shins and calves. The dirt on his hands mingles with the condensation on his glass of water, leaving behind muddy smudges. The sound of the back door opening behind him precedes the subtle heat at his side when Tim sits down next to him.

“Looks like you got a lot done today,” Tim compliments him, taking in the joists stretching across the deck frame.

“Yeah,” Jason agrees, proud of the progress he’s made.

The deck is something he’d thought about doing when he first bought the house. One of those amorphous potentials a house with a yard has. It was supposed to be something to do after he finished the built-ins in the living room, but maintaining a drug empire and avoiding bats had led to more nights spent in spartan safe houses than at home. It’s a project he is thankful for now. Not only is it a way to pass the excessive amount of time he has on his hands, which is something fairly foreign to him, but the manual labor is a good escape. He isn’t plagued with so many invasive poisonous thoughts when his mind is full of measurements and calculations.

“I’m going to try and get it blocked and bridged before the end of the week. Then I can actually start laying the decking.”

Tim hums like he knows what Jason is talking about. Jason grins a little because he does the same when Tim shares about his day and starts throwing around terms like ‘reverse merger’ and ‘leapfrogging market shares.’ A comfortable silence settles between them as the sky is saturated with blazing color.

“Oh.” Jason gets to his feet, “I wanted to show you something. Stay there, I’ll be right back.”

He shoulders through the door back inside. There are two papers sitting on the coffee table. He takes the one off the top. Tim doesn’t need to see the second one. He returns outside and flops down next to Tim and hands him the paper.

“What’s this?” Tim asks, one eyebrow raised at the simplistic print of a house filled in with pencil inscriptions.

“It’s this thing Dr. T had me do today. It’s um, well it’s… Honestly I forgot what it’s called, but you fill it out with like the people and things that are important to you. So like, Steph and Miss Lucille are the walls because they help support me. Alfie’s my foundation—”

Tim’s eyes narrow.

“Is that poo?” he asks, pointing to the square in front of the door with Dick’s name inside next to a black squiggle.

“Yeah, yeah. So you’re supposed to put the things you want people to know about you there, but I couldn’t really come up with anything so I put Dick there instead since it’s a doormat and I like the idea of wiping the shit off my shoes on him when I can,” Jason glosses over breezily making Tim snort in amusement. “But take a look here.”

Jason taps the triangle close to the top of the paper. Tim’s lips move as he reads his own name.

“I’m the roof? What does that mean?” he asks, sharp blue eyes meeting Jason’s.

Jason ducks his head and scratches behind his ear.

“It uh, it means you take care of me. That I trust you to protect me.”

Tim’s smile is a slow thing that crawls from one side of his face to the other. He twists, rising on his knees to roll up on top of Jason; heedless of the grass stains surely ruining the knees of his slacks. He leans forward until Jason’s back is flush against the earth, planting his elbows on either side of Jason’s head.

“What are you doing?” Jason breathes.

Tim’s top lip curls ever so slightly more, exposing neat rows of pearly white teeth.

“Being your roof,” he answers.


	4. An Unexpected Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone. It's been a long time, and I offer my deepest apologies. I never intended to take so long. Unfortunately life has not been exceptionally kind, and I had a lot of irl things happened that impeded my ability to work on this, including having my apartment broken into twice which necessitated me staying with friends for a while. I won't say everything is better now, but they are getting better with the help of therapy. I will however, say that I will make writing a priority again. 
> 
> Here we have, for the first time a chapter from Stephanie's perspective. It took a while to get rolling, I probably went through 5 different starts before hitting a tone I liked and could carry to the end. I hope you like it, and that this take on Stephanie's character resonates with you. Let me know what you think, though I ask that you be gentle - I'm a little fragile right now, and it's my birthday tomorrow :)
> 
> There is no sex in this chapter, but there's a lot of discussion of it and accompanying comical hand gestures, just heads up.
> 
> I love you all, thank you for your patience.

 

 

** Chapter 4 **

 

 

Stephanie’s brow furrows in concentration. Her fingers hover over the delicate task at hand. A crash behind her makes her snap them reflexively to her chest.

“What was that?” she shouts over her shoulder.

“Uh… Nothing?”

“It didn’t sound like nothing!”

“Everything’s fine! I’m fine! Nothing’s broken!”

Stephanie pauses, frowning in suspicion.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I just—I tripped and fell into the dresser. Hey! Have you seen my badge?” Jeremy asks, head sticking out of the bedroom doorway, hair ruffled.

She can see a red mark growing on his forehead and smiles. She’s smitten with the mundane novelty of it, of a person stumbling naturally through life without the ingrained periperception of a vigilante. It’s cute. Refreshing. Even when dating Tim, she only remembers seeing him stumble at the height of sleep deprivation or concussed.

“Is it not on top of the dresser where you usually leave it?”

“Yah. Not there. That’s why I’m asking you.”

Stephanie rolls her eyes and clacks her nails on the counter. The color is grown out from the beds and chipped at the edges. She really needs to repaint them.

“Did you check behind the dresser? Maybe it fell off when you knocked into it,” she suggests.

She winces, caught between hating how much she just sounded like her mom, and thrilling at the easy cohabitation between them. Jeremy’s head disappears. A few seconds later there is a happy chirrup of victory from the bedroom. Stephanie snorts fondly and turns back to her undertaking. The tip of her tongue pokes out and curls back over her top lip as she rolls the wrapper over a spoonful of filling. This is the part she always messes up; wrinkling the dough or leaving air pockets. But the wrapper folds over smoothly and she pumps her fist triumphantly before neatly tucking in the corners. She brushes the sealing edge with a mixture of flour and water and finishes the roll, setting it aside to pull a new wrapper from the pack. She hears footsteps approach and then a chin digs into her shoulder.

“You’re getting really good at that,” Jeremy praises and rotates his head to dot her jaw with a kiss. He steps back and picks up a roll, inspecting it critically. “Actually, I’m pretty sure you’ve surpassed me. Should I be proud or threatened?”

Stephanie grins.

“I’m a quick study with exceptional manual dexterity. So definitely both,” she teases, leaving out the fact that said dexterity is the result of a lifestyle spent diffusing bombs and escaping restraints.

Her smile falters and she’s thankful Jeremy can’t see the momentary lapse. He wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her close against him.

“Noooo,” he wails softly into her hair, “What will my _bà ngoại_ think when my white girlfriend makes _chả giò_ better than her own grandson?”

Stephanie drops her voice into a mockery of a man’s baritone, “ _Dishonor on you, dishonor on your cow, dis_ —”

Jeremy spins her around laughing. He stifles his laughter on her lips.

“She’s Vietnamese, not Chinese,” he whines playfully.

“I know. But until Disney makes a movie about a kickass Vietnamese princess, you’ll have to deal. Besides, you love Mulan. Don’t even try to deny it, you know more lines than I do, loser,” she soothes him with a quick kiss.

Jeremy jerks his head back to sneer down at her, “ _What you mean, a loser? How ‘bout if I pop one of your antennas off and throw it across the yard, then who’s the loser: me or you?_ ”

She laughs and smacks him on the chest before diving in for another kiss. Jeremy hums in response. His thumbs circle up under the hem of her shirt, brushing the pucker of a scar and she instinctively takes a step back. She loathes how cold her skin feels in the absence of his hands. Jeremy stands, eyes downcast and palms flat against the thighs of his work slacks. He’s two feet away and it feels like miles.

“Jer—”

He holds up a hand, cutting her off.

“It’s okay,” he says, a fake smile clicking unevenly into place, “I know you don’t like being touched there. I forgot, it’s my fault. It’s fine.”

Stephanie shakes her head, “No, it’s not. I’m sorry I—”

“It’s okay,” he insists emphatically.

“Stop saying that!” Stephanie barks, “Could you just—God, could you stop being so insufferably perfect for one moment and admit that I’m a little fucked up and it bothers you?”

“Whoa, whoa,” Jeremy takes hold of one of her hands and squeezes it gently. “Stephie, it doesn’t bother me.”

She growls. Irritation flickers across Jeremy’s face and he tries again.

“Is that what you want to hear? That it bothers me? Okay, fine. Yes. You are my girlfriend and I think you are gorgeous and ideally I’d really like to see you naked one day. But— _but_ the fact that you think being skittish about showing skin is going to change whether or not I want to be with you? _That’s_ what bothers me. Do you really think my feelings are that shallow?” he asks.

At some point he’s crept back into her space, cupping her face in his hands.

“You’ve been there for me through so much… Everything with Abram, and,” he chokes and takes a second to recover. “Besides, I like what we do. Especially your _exceptional manual dexterity_ ,” he leers lightheartedly, waggling his eyebrows, “And unless I’m mistaken, you’ve been enjoying yourself as well, right?”

Stephanie’s face flushes and a lusty huff of air puffs from her nostrils. A recalcitrant smile tugs at her cheeks as she remembers the long low moan from last night that had set the neighbors to banging on the wall as she rutted down against him through their clothes until she came like a horny high schooler.

“So see? Not a big deal. I’m happy to wait as long as it takes. You’re worth it.”

Stephanie groans and mashes her face into his chest.

“Guh. Insufferably perfect,” she mumbles into the cotton blend of his shirt. She tilts her head back to look at him, “But what if I’m not okay with it?”

“Then… Then we’ll work through it. You know you can tell me anything, right?”

She buries her head back into his chest and nods, not able to look him in the eyes as she lies. She stays tucked into him until the harsh discordant buzz of his phone zaps them apart. He glances down at the screen and sighs.

“Just not right now, because I’ve got to go to work and your friends are going to be here any minute,” he plants a kiss in her hair in parting and zips around the kitchen grabbing cap, keys, and jacket. At last, he hovers in the doorway, one hand on the knob and looks back longingly. “Those really do look good, by the way. Save me some for dinner?”

“I make no promises,” she warns, already planning to set four aside for him when he gets home.

He pouts and pulls the door open. Tim almost falls inside at his feet. He and Jason stand awkwardly on the cramped stoop trying their best to look like they haven’t been eavesdropping. Tim’s polite smile would be convincing if not for Jason’s grimacing attempt at one behind him. Tim hefts up a bottle of wine in each hand with a touch too much enthusiasm.

“We come bearing libations!” he announces loudly and shuffles quickly inside.

“And cupcakes,” Jason adds, following on his heels.

His broad shoulders brush both sides of the narrow doorway of Jeremy’s row house as he carries in a covered tray.

“Hey Jeremy,” he dips his head in greeting, “You heading out, not sticking around?”

“Yeah, you know how it is. Kicked out of my own house so my girlfriend can have a girl’s night with a bunch of dudes,” Jeremy shrugs.

Jason nods sympathetically, “I feel ya man. I haven’t figured out how to say no to her either.”

“That is not true!” Stephanie shrieks in righteous rage, “I am not kicking him out, he’s going to work. And he said I could invite you over here since my dorm room is too small to fit everyone. And it’s a _spa night_ , not a _girl’s night_. And Barbara is coming too, so it won’t just be me and a bunch of dudes. Lies, all shameless lies. Don’t listen to him Jason.”

“Love you babe! Jason, don’t let her burn the house down,” he hollers and blows her a kiss, running to the relative safety of a night on patrol in Gotham.

Once the door closes Stephanie wastes no time in grabbing Tim and Jason both and pulling them into a hug.

“Hey guys, thanks for coming. Food’s almost ready.”

“Good to see you too, Steph. What’s cooking?” Tim asks, pulling away to set the wine down.

“Jeremy has been teaching me how to make c _hả giò_ ,” she says slowly, rolling the word around her mouth and making sure she pronounces it correctly. “And I think I’ve got it perfected! Just got to fry it up here real quick. Oh, and glasses are in the top cabinet by the fridge,” she directs.

She watches Jason and Tim from the corner of her eye while she fires up the Fry Daddy. Jason helps Tim out of his coat and hangs it on one of the hooks by the door, earning him a tiny kiss on the tip of his nose. His eyes widen and pink blossoms over his cheeks. Stephanie shakes her head, scoffing lightly at how disgustingly adorable they are. Jason’s head snaps up at the noise and his bewildered look switches out for a perturbed glare. Laughter bubbles up her throat. She’s saved from a possible bout of homicidal rage by a knock at the door.

“Tim, can you please get that? It should be Barbara and Dick.”

The redhead rolls in, conspicuously minus one flexible beau. She tugs the boys down for a hug like Stephanie had done, eking out a grunt from Jason. He must be past his hug threshold for the day.

“No Dickface today?” Jason needles.

“Ah, no. Not today. Sorry everyone, you’ll have to settle for just me. But, I brought strawberries and Epsom salt and pumice stones for foot soaks,” she announces unapologetically.

She shoves a tote-bag into Jason’s hands.

“ _Spa night? Foot soaks?_ ” Jason queries, “Blondie, what exactly is going on here? I though this was just dinner.”

Stephanie lowers the basket of _chả giò_ into the hot oil and raises a finger. She makes them wait until the rolls are golden crisped and set out to drip-dry before turning a grin on her friends.

“Welcome to _Self-Care Saturday!_ ” she throws her arms open wide. “I think we can all agree we lead some stressful lives. Between the roof-top hopping, crime-fighting, taking classes, being CEOs, dealing with Bruce, and a whole lot of other craziness—I thought it would be a good idea to take a break from all that once in a while. Follow me!”

She waves them into the living room where an array of clays, peels, oils, and lotions are collected on the coffee table.

“Tadaa!” she claps her hands in excitement. “I’ve got stuff for facials, manis and pedis, and even some good ole aromatherapy.”

She beams at her guests. Barbara is the first to react, Stephanie having clued her in at the very beginning. She waves her arms over her head and gives a little ‘ _woo!_ ’ Tim rolls his lips between his teeth to hold in a grin while side-eyeing his boyfriend. And Jason… Quite frankly, Stephanie wishes she had her phone out to take a picture. His face is crinkled from chin forehead, like someone who’s found a glass door by walking straight into it. He starts to open his mouth.

“Wow, Steph! You’ve gone all out,” Tim inserts quickly. He nudges Jason with his elbow. “I’m sure we’ll love the chance to relax. It will be fun! Just like the bubble bath.”

Jason looks at him askance, spots of color appearing on his cheeks.

“Tim… No…” he whispers, a doomed man.

Stephanie and Barbara leap at the bait that’s been laid irresistibly at their feet.

“Bubble bath?” they ask.

Stephanie bats her eyelashes in exaggerated innocence at her best friend for good measure. Tim grins in a way that never fails to get her anticipation up.

“Did you know that Jason had never had a bubble-bath before? Sad, right? That’s what I thought too. So, I said to myself, ‘ _Tim, we have to fix this_ ,’” he narrates animatedly, as crimson creeps up Jason’s collar. “Little did I know the monster I’d unleash. When this guy,” Tim jerks his thumb over his shoulder to the empty space where Jason used to be.

Stephanie cranes her head to locate him in the kitchen where he’s desperately uncorking one of the wine bottles.

“Dumps half the bottle in and floods my bathroom,” Tim continues giddily. “For real, there were bubbles halfway up the toilet.”

Jason takes a swig straight from the bottle. The movement is so stereotypically masculine that if she couldn’t see the label she would think he was knocking back bourbon, not chugging rosé. Tears of mirth roll Barbara’s face. Stephanie checks down at the phone that’s been shoved under their noses and brays with laughter at the picture on screen.

“ _Oh Jason_ , that’s too—Dick would die if he saw that,” Barbara cries, lifting her glasses to wipe at her cheeks.

There’s a growl as Jason swaggers over. The fingers of one hand curl possessively around the neck of the wine bottle he’s claimed, and the fingers of the other stab towards them aggressively.

  
“No! Absolutely not! If that picture ever makes its way into Dick’s hands, I will hunt down whoever is responsible and they will be at the bottom of Gotham Harbor before the idiot can say _Wingding_ ,” he hisses.

“Of course you will, Little Wing.” Barbara pats him with mocking consolation.

The muscles in his arms and shoulders go taut and Stephanie is afraid she may be cleaning up broken glass any second. He blinks hard then squeezes his eyes shut. There’s a tic in his jaw and then he lets out a long breath, and the tension bleeds away. He opens his eyes and stares them down.

“Gah. Alright ya weirdos. Do your worst,” he commits himself to their care with resignation.

Stephanie stifles another bout of giggles and nods at the bottle.

“Will do, but first – you want to slow down there Skippy? That’s supposed to be to share,” she reminds him.

He shakes his head, “Nope. There’s another bottle. You guys can share that one. This one is for me.”

He cradles the bottle close to his body as he’s herded towards the couch. Stephanie and Tim make sure he’s sat in the middle, bracketed on either side by them to discourage any escape attempts. She’s reminded of the time she and Dick did the same to Tim when forcing him to confront his feelings about Jason. Hopefully this will end better; she’d gone home that day with a busted lip. Barbara has opportunistically placed her wheelchair between the couch and hall as well– not a true obstacle, but certainly an impediment.

For as much fuss as he makes though, once the snacks and wine are distributed and his feet are soaking in a basin of hot water, Jason’s protests dwindle. He twiddles a half-eaten roll between his fingers.

“These are delicious Blondie, you done good.”

Stephanie glows at the praise, warmth suffusing through her body. Or maybe that’s the glass of white zinfandel.

“Thanks. Jeremy wants me to meet his grandparents and I thought it’d be cool if I made one of his grandmother’s recipes for them. So you guys are my guinea pigs, glad you like them.”

“Meeting the family?” Barbara comments, too casually to be innocent.

“Wow. These cupcakes though!” Stephanie gushes, “They are amazing, Jason. What exactly is the flavor? I don’t think I’ve ever had any like them before.”

“Uh, the batter is an Earl Grey infusion and there’s lemon zest in the icing. They were an experiment. An homage to Alfred, kind of.”

“That’s a big step, meeting family,” Barbara prompts again.

“Yeah,” Stephanie concedes, voice small.

“They’ll love you,” Tim reassures her breezily, “You don’t have anything to worry about,”

“And if they don't? Fuck ‘em. Who cares? As long as Boy-Blue likes you, that’s all that matters and anyone else can suck it,” Jason pipes in sagely.

Stephanie snorts. Of course he’d say that. A smile flashes across her face before fading as quickly as it came.

“Is everything okay, Steph? That’s a good thing, isn’t it? Taking the next step. Means he’s really serious about you,” Barbara persists despite Tim and Jason’s swift dismissal the topic.

Then again, why would they be concerned? Neither of them has any family left. Blood relatives at least.

“Yeah, I—I guess. I mean. I want to, it’s just… I don’t know if I can,” she bites out bitterly. “It’s real, you know? And we’re at the point where either I’ve got to break up with him or…”

She preoccupies herself by sorting through nail polishes. Too light, too dark, too pink. She taps her nail on the cap of one, _Plum Pleasure_ , and takes a deep breath.

“I really don’t want to break up. I love him.”

She rolls the bottle in her palm.

“You want to tell him you’re Batgirl,” Tim posits.

She nods. She’s fantasized about telling Jeremy she’s Batgirl for a while. Fantasized about the look of star-struck awe on his face as she rides him while wearing the cowl as well. Unlike the rest of the bats, she doesn’t have the obsessive urge to maintain the mystery and dramatics of an alter-ego. Her own father had been pretty blasé about letting his villain and civilian personas intermingle, she doesn’t have a billion-dollar company at stake, or a whole gaggle of people to look out for either. It's just her and her mom.

The only thing that’s been holding her back is the possibility of revealing everyone else’s identities. If it’s known she’s Batgirl, it’s not exactly a huge leap to work backwards and figure out who Tim and Jason (assuming he takes up a mask again) and Dick are, and by extension the rest of the Waynes and other Gotham vigilantes. Outing them is not her place or desire; and while Jeremy may not be at Tim’s Mensa-level intellect, he’s far from stupid.

“I want to not have to lie to him anymore,” she counters. “I want to not have to lie about my evening plans, bruises, why we can't go to the beach or pool because I can't let him see me without a shirt!”

“Wait… Why won’t you let him let him see you without a shirt? You’re not exactly shy post-patrol. I’ve seen your tits and they are nothing to be ashamed of,” Jason smirks.

She levels him with a scathing look, “You’re not the only one with scars that are hard to explain, Jason.”

That effectively glues his tongue to the roof of his mouth. She almost feels bad, but at the same time, she thinks it's probably good for him to be reminded he’s not the only one with shit every once in a while. Her scars may not be as gruesome as his, but they’re not something she can erase without a lot of special effects make-up. She twitches, the memory of a 20-volt De Walt power drill whining in her ears. Jason starts to sit back seemingly cowed, but a second later he’s rocking forward again.

“Wait, so does that like mean that you guys haven’t… Haven’t… _Y’know_.”

“Are you for real right now?” Stephanie demands.

“It’s just… You guys have been dating for a while, and you’re all over each other. I figured you would’ve… _Y’know_ ,” Jason gives up trying to explain himself and bangs his fists together crudely, “By now.”

“Wow, Jason. Wow. Tim, you’re really dating this guy?”

“Yeah,” Tim smiles dreamily, “Someone’s got to. Figured I would sacrifice myself for the good of all.”

Jason grabs Tim by the face and gives him a shove, curving his spine back over the arm of the sofa.

“Okay, one: it’s rude to ask about someone’s sex life,” Stephanie begins to lecture. She is interrupted by Tim going into a coughing fit. She narrows her eyes at him. “Two: we are doing just fine on that front, thank you very much. In case you didn’t know, there’s a lot of other stuff you can do than just—” she bangs her fists together. “And three: that’s what you took away from me wanting to tell Jeremy about being Batgirl?” she asks incredulously.

Jason’s shoulders curl inward as he tries to sink his bulk inconspicuously back into the couch.

Barbara blows air out between pursed lips, “Well, Bruce won’t like it, but—”

“Fuck Bruce.”

The strength of the assertion surprises Stephanie, especially since the language comes from Tim’s mouth, not Jason’s. But she sees how his hand has found Jason’s and grips it tight. Neither of them has told her exactly what happened the night of Jason’s last death, but whatever occurred had deeply shaken Tim’s faith in Bruce.

“There are things that are more important than his rules,” Tim urges her earnestly, “If you want to tell Jeremy, don’t let him stop you. I’d like to do a Challenger Deep-deep background check on him and all of his family first… But if you really want to, I’ll support you.”

“Are you sure? You’re the one most at risk if I do,” she points out.

“I’m sure.”

“And hell Blondie, you know I don’t give a shit,” Jason weighs in, “He can only screw me over so much, being mostly dead and all. And if he tries, I’ll just take him out.”

Last, Stephanie turns to her mentor. She loves Tim and Jason dearly, but Barbara’s opinion she respects above almost all others. Barbara sighs and reaches forward to take her hand.

“It’s not going to be easy. There will still be times when you can’t share everything that’s going on. You’ll have tough calls to make, compromise priorities. You’ll experience unique issues with no precedence to guide you. But, I think out of all of us—you’re the one who could make it work. You deserve to be happy, Stephanie. I’ll talk it over with Dick, don’t worry about him.”

Stephanie’s throat works. She wants to thank them for having her back, to let them know how much it means to her. But the words don’t come. Her throat closes up, tears lurking behind heated eyelids. She sniffs and wipes at her nose.

What she finally manages is, “Damnit guys. So, facials, yeah?”

They scrub, they peel, and Jason paints ‘butt’ across Tim’s forehead as they slather each other up with a green hydrating mask. A couple cucumber slices later and Tim succumbs to the calming scent of the lavender candle burning on the mantle. His head is tipped back, drool creeping from the corner of his mouth.

“Your boyfriend is leaking,” Barbara observes dryly, glancing up from a book.

  
Jason doesn’t look away from brushing _Plum Pleasure_ over Stephanie’s nails. He holds the brush with unforeseen delicacy. When she had complimented him on his technique he’d ducked his head and mumbled something about doing it for his mom when her hands were too shaky.

“Yeah, he does that sometimes. I took him to the vet but they said it’s perfectly natural. Nothing to be done about it.”

Stephanie chuckles.

“Has he been getting enough sleep?” she tips her chin towards Tim’s insensate form.

Jason makes an ambiguous noise in the back of his throat.

“I make sure he at least makes it into a bed whenever I’m around, sometimes that means I have to hunt him down and throw him over my shoulder to get him there, but… I dunno. He’s been… He’s been having nightmares.”

He finishes off her pinky with a final stroke and caps the bottle of polish. Stephanie curls her fingers towards her palms for inspection. She hums happily at the neat job.

“Is that—normal? Did he have those when he was with you?”

The concern in Jason’s voice brings Stephanie’s attention back to him.

“Yeah, he did,” she answers matter-of-factly.

It’s hard to tell the exact expression he’s making through all of the goop on his face, but her words don’t seem to comfort him any. It makes her heart wrench in her chest. Has he really been going this long thinking he’s alone in this type of suffering? She never thought she’d be so glad to see her ex dating someone else, but if he hadn’t she probably wouldn’t be friends with Jason now, and she can’t think of anyone who needs friends more than Jason Todd.

“Jason, we _all_ have nightmares. It kind of comes with the territory,” she explains sympathetically.

His eyes move to Tim and rest there, drinking in the sight of his boyfriend safe in repose. Long minutes pass in silence.

“Hey, can I ask you a question?” Jason asks, his voice carefully quiet.

“Shoot,” Stephanie replies in kind, happy to have earned his confidence.

Jason blunders through three false starts before squeaking out, “Did you and Tim ever… Did you—”

“Did we ever?” Stephanie hazards a guess and bangs her fists together in the same gesture he’d used earlier.

“Yeah,” he nods, relieved to be spared having to say it himself.

She can’t believe this guy was the Red Hood.

“We messed around a lot. But actual penetrative sex? No. I’d just gone through a teen pregnancy, and if you can believe it, I wasn’t exactly eager to chance that again. Even with condoms and birth control, I was too scared to try. Tim was a perfect gentleman about it though. We had a lot of other issues, but he never made me feel bad about that,” she shares. “Why do you want to know?”

Jason scrapes fingers through his hair, inadvertently smearing green goo into his bangs.

“He’s just—he’s really good. To me. And I was wondering if—if you knew what he liked?”

She tries, really tries to figure out where this is going as Jason struggles along.

“You’re a girl,” he blurts, “And if he’s only been with girls, if that means… Whether he only likes… Uh. Or if maybe…”

“If he only liked girls I don’t think he’d be dating you right now,” Stephanie offers before it hits her what he’s really asking. “Oh! _Oh_. You mean, if he’s used to being the one,” she mimes a finger thrusting into a ring formed by two fingers on her other hand, “then does that mean he doesn’t like?” she switches hands, reversing the motion.

He nods frenetically. She really wishes she could see what shade of pink he must be under that hydrating mask. She rubs her palms together in glee, warming up to the topic. She has so many things to teach this stuttering fool, so much knowledge to pass on to a willing pupil. This is it. This is her moment. She will be a fount, ever flowing, of _so much dirt_ on Tim Drake.

“Oh Jay. Jay, Jay, my sweet summer child. Has Tim never told you the story about how he lost his virginit—”

She’s cut off by an unwelcome buzz. Not just from her phone, but Jason’s and Barbara’s as well, where they’ve been tossed amidst exfoliants. Tim starts wriggling, roused and trying to dig his phone out of his pants pocket. They frown in apprehension. It’s rare for them all to receive an alert. That usually only happens with something big, like Bruce sound the all-hands-on-deck for an Arkham break-out, or if the Clocktower pings something substantial in the media or GCPD frequencies. Stephanie flips the purple glitter-covered case of her phone over and unlocks the screen. Her heart stops.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Look at that, I managed to post less than 3 months later! Woot! Thanks to everyone for all of the well-wishes. Things are still... Well, we will prevail. Right? Right! Have some shmoopy fun! Also totally taking votes as to wait Jason's new alias should be. Because I'm too lazy to come up with something on my own.
> 
> Oh! And by the way the star-chart algorithm thing is totally real and so is Trex you should look it up because it is WAY cool!

 

Chapter 5

 

 

Two people dead. Just two. It’s such a small number. Hardly a blip on the radar. Two-Face, Black Mask, even Ivy… They had body counts in the hundreds, killing people off dozens at a time. And then there was Joker—the outlier who threw off the whole damn bell curve. Jason still can’t believe he’s gone sometimes. He’s never lived in a Gotham without Joker. It’s almost as alien as a Gotham without Batman would be. He keeps expecting one of fate’s crazy curveballs to throw the clown back in his face; grave dirt caked over white paint. He knows better than anyone else that the dead don’t always stay that way. Still, he keeps a picture he’d found in one of the darker corners of the internet of Joker’s corpse on his phone to reassure himself on his more paranoid days.

Two dead wasn’t even a bad night in Crime Alley by Jason’s standards. Tim could probably back him up on that with the statistics. Unfortunately, who dies is often more important than how many. Life is not fair, and not all men are created equal. At least not in the eyes of the justice system. The hypocrisy of it fuels his disgust at the farce of a system that doesn’t blink at the kidnap, rape, and murder of a teenage girl because of her skin color and zipcode, but will whip itself into a frenzy over a banker shot by his wife’s lover.

Two people dead. Except, these weren’t just people. No. They were cops, and as corrupt as the Gotham police department is, that still means something. It means media outrage, twitchy trigger fingers, an overzealous investigation wrapped up sloppy, and a city ready to boil over. Usually, Jason couldn’t care less about the loss of a couple of Gotham’s debatable finest, but he’d seen Stephanie’s face when the alert got bumped to their phones from the Clocktower’s data-sifting algorithm. He wasn’t keen to see that expression there again.

Tim had held her while Barbara jumped to work tuning into the GCPD’s frequency to discover the officers’ identities. None of them tried to tell Blondie that it would be okay, that everything would be fine. They know better than that. They waited, huddled together by the couch until Jason couldn’t take it anymore and he marched into the kitchen to declare war on the dishes. Needed to keep his hands busy so he wasn’t tempted to do something stupid. He’d darted back into the living room four minutes later when he heard Blondie give a great big sob. He’d feared the worst and was surprised by the muted ache it elicited. He wasn’t that close to Jeremy, but he liked him well enough. He’d started thinking of him as an acceptable add-on to their little group.

But then Blondie had tilted her head back and uttered a relieved, “Thank god,” before closing her eyes and tucking her head into Tim’s neck, and Jason was once more surprised by the echoing throb of emotion inside himself. They stayed for another hour, helping clean up the remnants of Self-Care Saturday scattered around the living room until Blondie managed to get Jeremy on the phone. He and Tim headed out reluctantly after Barbie promised to wait with her until Jeremy came home.

Jason lets Tim drive his beat up Toyota pickup. It’s too old to be fashionable, not old enough to be classic. A conveniently forgettable, sensible vehicle. He’d had more to drink than he’d anticipated when they left the house, caught off guard by the direction the evening had taken. He ran the math in his head. The alcohol content of the wine, his body mass, divided over the span of time… He was probably toeing the line of the legal limit. Not enough to truly impair him, but getting pulled over as a civilian wasn’t worth it.

The drive back to Robbinsville is quiet. Tim doesn’t try to make conversation. Jason doesn’t turn on the radio. They listen to the susurrus of the city around them instead: the wail of sirens in the background, the slurred protestations of drunks being evicted from bars. It’s all blanketed by the static of the truck’s tires kicking up mist as they roll over wet asphalt. Jason is glad that winter’s biting chill has passed, but the persistently low barometric pressure of a hyetal Spring makes his old injuries ache anyways. The silence persists all the way up the drive way and into the house. The sound of keys clattering onto the counter is harsh, making Jason twitch as he reaches up to get the bag of treats for Lucy. Usually he tosses a couple in her direction for her to eat off the floor, but tonight he crouches down and enjoys the soft tickle of her whiskers and prickled tongue against his palm. He strokes a hand down her back and stands, moving over to the fridge to pour himself a glass of water. He feels Tim’s eyes linger on the way the frame of his body leans against the cabinets, the way his throat bobs as he drinks and swallows.

He sets the glass down. Tim’s face is carefully expressionless in a way that Jason can only envy. He’s not stupid. He knows his own weaknesses. Half the reason he wore the hood was to keep from telegraphing his emotions. Tactical advantage. The other half being purely practical; there was so much more tech you could cram in a helmet than a domino. Not to mention actual cranial protection—something that’s kind of high priority for him after being brain-damaged that one time thanks to a crowbar colliding repeatedly with his skull. He’s surprised helmets aren’t a more popular choice among vigilantes considering their increased risk for head trauma.

He needs to see if he can convince Tim to start wearing a helmet.

He’d hate for anything to happen to that brain. Or face. It’s a good face. He likes it more when Tim’s letting his personality show through – a sarcastic slant to his eyes, and that small uptick at the corner of his mouth. But he’s still objectively rather pretty even when he’s doing his blank-faced number.

“I’m glad it wasn’t Jeremy.”

He’s not sure why he says it, other than as something to fill the silence. Tim nods.

“Me too, I know I give the guy a hard time, but I’d hate for him to actually get hurt.”

Jason’s gotten good at decoding Tim’s tics and microexpressions, but he flounders when Tim gives him nothing to work with. It’s frustrating. He feels like Tim is waiting for him to say something else, except he doesn’t know what. Maybe that’s the point. To let him speak without letting Tim’s opinion inadvertently color what he would say?

His mind chugs hopelessly, trying to take a stab at what topic to broach, when his mouth blurts out, “I want to patrol again. I think it’s time.”

As soon as he says it, he tastes the truth of it on his tongue. After long months of healing and cautiously restrained training, Jason’s been yearning to stretch his metaphoric and literal legs. Tonight’s events, and the threat towards one of the few people Jason considers a friend, has thrown fuel on his desire to get back on the streets. Tim’s eyes flash. The empty façade drops away, in its place is a smile Jason’s only seen from Tim in the bedroom before.

“Tonight?” Jason proposes, throat suddenly dry.

“I’m good to go if you are. We can head out in a couple hours. We’ll take it easy. Call it a practice run?” Tim eagerly agrees, his innocent tone at odds with the mischievous smile on his face.

It does funny things to Jason’s stomach. Things that remind him of a hastily aborted conversation he’d been having with Blondie.

“Yeah. Let’s uh, let’s—oh man. Yes. Do a gear check. I’ll make something to eat. And we should probably hydrate some first…”

“Shiny,” Tim agrees with a grin so wide Jason wonders how he spoke through it.

The younger man turns on his heel, darting into the bedroom where their gear is stashed while Jason pours them a glass of water each. He presses one into Tim’s hand upon his return in exchange for his duffle bag of gear. He stares meaningfully at Tim until Tim caves and drinks half of it. Appeased for the time being, Jason begins emptying out his duffle, laying items out on the kitchen table while Tim does the same at the coffee table in the living room. Jason snorts fondly. The sight is surprisingly reminiscent of Blondie’s assemblage of cosmetics for spa-day, if one switched out nail files for birdarangs.

Methodically they take stock of their inventories. Tim almost obsessively checks and rechecks and triple checks the grappling guns. The faint hiss of well-oiled cable on a spool and the test click of the anchor spike engaging fills the space between them. He takes longer than Jason with his vast array of gadgets. Jason swears he sees him pack away an external hard drive, a signal jammer, flashlight, a handful of tracking beacons, a blood test kit, several sterile swabs, empty vials and Ziploc bags for evidence collection, smoke pellets, gorilla glue, an extra comm unit, EMP, miniature welding torch, a pharmacy’s worth of anti-toxins, a Geiger counter, and—

“Is that shark repellent?”

Tim glares back at him balefully.

“Let’s just say that Steph made me watch Jaws, and it made an impact.”

Jason holds his palms outward in surrender and goes back to minding his own stash. He wonders how much all of Tim’s add-ons weigh and finds he has a new respect for his string-bean of a boyfriend. Aside from his helmet, Jason prefers to stick to the basics: grappling gun, throwing knives, flash-bang grenades, taser, and a syringe of cellulose tablets in case he’s the one who ends up being on the wrong end of a gunshot. Generally, he doesn’t actually bring explosives or anything bigger than his pistols unless he’s already planning to use them that night for something specific. Speaking of…

He looks around for his pistol case. He narrows his eyes at his boyfriend and wonders if their absence is an innocent oversight or subtle statement. Of course it’s not an oversight. Tim never does something without a purpose. Wordlessly he gets up and retrieves the case from the gun safe. Tim glances up guiltily when Jason sets it on the kitchen table, its hard plastic clacking against the wood. There’s a tense moment as he watches Jason field strip the first pistol.

“Do you have to?” Tim asks.

Jason’s hackles rise. It takes everything in him to answer with a restrained warning, “ _Tim_.”

Tim bites his bottom lip and worries it.

“Look, I’m not saying never. But… Tonight. We said a practice run, right? We’re not working a case, not taking on anyone big. Just supposed to run off wannabe muggers and burglars, right?”

Jason stares at the gun in his hands. He runs his thumb over the stock and feels its heft. He wants to snarl back an automatic no. He’d told Tim, _he’d told him_ , he wasn’t going to give up his guns and that Tim would have to find a way to come to terms with that. He swears under his breath. Tim’s not wrong though. This is supposed to be a warm-up, and they shouldn’t get involved in anything they can’t handle with just their fists. But since when do things go according to plan? He takes a deep breath.

“I won’t take both. Just one. And only as a final defense.”

He keeps his voice calm and measured. He doesn’t allow it to lilt up at the end. It is not a question and he is not asking permission. Tim chews on the inside of his cheek as he mulls it over.

“Okay.”

Jason breathes out sharply and nods.

“Okay,” he echoes.

That’s the thing about compromises – in the end, no one’s completely happy. Jason doesn’t think Tim needs to know that the only reason he even considered offering the compromise is because he can’t actually wield two guns at once anymore. His right hand isn’t strong enough to handle the kick-back without his missing fingers. The day he’d realized that, he’d locked himself in the men’s room at the shooting range and curled up on the tile floor for twenty minutes trying to swallow down angry self-pitying sobs.

He strips and reassembles both guns. Even if he only takes one with him, it’s a relaxing ritual. Wipe down, bore brush, oil, rack the slide, test fire with a snap cap. When he’s satisfied with their condition he sets them back carefully in their case and moves on to his new helmet. He rolls his head around his shoulders, while it calibrates. Tim catches his eye with a shy smile.

“How’s it working?”

The little shit. He’s being smug not coy. Jason tilts his head emphatically, hoping to communicate the full brunt of his scorn. Like giving up his guns, letting Tim into his helmet had been a hard no. He had however, allowed Tim to guide him through some improvements he could make while he did the actual work himself. Jason runs a diagnostic check. He is begrudgingly pleased with the speed with which everything loads and flashes across the HUD. He rotates through visual spectrums, tests the comm, and reviews the filter capacities before answering Tim’s question with a suitably menacing growl through the voice modulator.

“Satisfactory.”

“Satisfactory?” Tim sneers affronted, “You mean it runs like a gorram dream.”

Jason tugs the helmet off.

“What would you think about wearing one of these?” he asks.

“A helmet?” Tim snorts and shakes his head, “Nah, I think that’s your thing Sundance.”

Jason frowns.

“Yeah, a helmet. To keep that big brain of yours safe.”

Tim’s head jerks up from where he’s bent over tooling around with the spring-release of his extendable staff.

“You’re—you’re serious,” he stammers, pale eyes wide in revelation.

“Of course I’m serious,” Jason growls, “Brain damage is not sexy. Trust me.”

Tim blinks and sets down his staff. “Uh. Okay. I’ll—I’ll take it under advisement.”

Jason crosses his arms stiffly. He doesn’t mean to project his doubt and disappointment so plainly, but he must, because Tim is standing from the couch and walking towards him. He rubs his hands over Jason’s biceps until he shifts his weight, relaxing into a looser stance.

“I mean it,” Tim promises, “It’s just something I’ve never really thought about. It would probably take a lot of getting used to. But I’ll consider it.” He raises two fingers to stroke Jason’s jaw. “Come stretch with me?”

Jason studies Tim, searching for a hint of insincerity. He doesn’t find any. He nods. They push the coffee table to one side and Tim leads them through a set of warm-up stretches Dick must have taught him. They’re a bit more pretzel-like than Jason’s usual routine. Afterwards he makes them some peanut-butter and banana sandwiches to snack on. Cupcakes and egg rolls are good and all, but they’ll need protein before suiting up. Jason thinks he sees Tim stash the second half of his sandwich somewhere on his suit, though Jason would be hard pressed to figure out exactly where. As if there’s free space between the shark repellent and the Geiger counter. Then finally, _finally_ , they climb onto Redbird and zoom into the night.

If Bruce and Dick think he’s reckless, they’ve clearly never been on the back of Tim’s bike. The guy drives like a madman and Jason loves it. He keeps a firm grip on Tim’s waist as the younger man zips them around turns at speeds Jason wouldn’t risk. He’s pretty sure Tim is showing off. No. He knows Tim is showing off, when he leans them so far over that Jason could reach out and touch asphalt (if he dared to let go of Tim) as they swirl up an overpass. They straighten just in time to speed over a joist and catch a few inches of air.

He can’t help it. He lets out a whoop that devolves into exuberant laughter. It feels like being Robin again – the ebullient rush of adrenaline. The feeling of flying so high, so fast, that nothing can stop him. Jason wishes he could exist here and now, with his arms around Tim and the city streaking around them, howling in their ears impotently, too slow to catch them in it’s claws and drag them down, forever. If it wasn’t for the promise of a night running rooftops, he’d ask Tim to keep driving. Out of the city, off the East Coast, hell, maybe out of the country. As is, he has a hard time not pouting when Tim brings the bike to a stop with a playful bounce. He dismounts with a slight stagger.

“ _Holy shit, Red_ ,” he giggles breathlessly, “Who the hell taught you how to drive this thing?”

Tim rips off his helmet and Jason almost stumbles again at the brilliance of his grin.

“Wing. Ha. You should have seen B’s face the first time he needed a pick-up. Thought he was going to toss his cookies.”

Jason starts to laugh at the picture Tim paints, but it gets swallowed by a sudden sense of saudade. He’d died before getting his learner’s permit. Sure, he knew how to drive even before meeting Bruce – had learned how to hot wire a car when he was eleven but… If he hadn’t died, would Dick have ever taken him out on his Spitfire? Would he have reveled in teaching Jason the joy of rolling off the throttle and squeezing the clutch lever? In passing on moves to make Bruce sweat and his stomach turn?

Probably not.

He coughs and leaves Tim to secure and camouflage Redbird, scaling up the fire escape of the building they’d chosen as their start point. Above him, hazy clouds of smog drift in the sky like pond scum on a fetid lake, blotting out the stars. Curious, he initiates one of the new programs he was helping develop at work. Technically, it was probably illegal for him to take a prototype home with him for personal use, but… Eh. Drop in the bucket.

“Run Starry Night.”

The screen of the HUD shimmers for a second, then pin-pricks of light begin to flicker into existence as the helmet’s sensors pick up the evidence of distant suns in the K and H bands on infrared. Digital lines spiderweb out, connecting the dots into a constellation map as they sync up with a star pattern recognition algorithm. The technology was the result of a collaborative effort between Trex Enterprises and Drake Industries to create an alternate navigating system for the military that didn’t rely on GPS. The hardware was too big to implant into a domino, but fit just fine in the helmet. Jason’s glad. If for no other reason than it’s really fucking cool.

The restrained scrape of boots on metal alerts him to Tim joining him. He appreciates the consideration. After working alone for years, his body is still trained to react to anyone sneaking up on him as an enemy, rather than an ally.

“Whatcha looking at?” Tim asks, tilting his head back to eye the scuzzy clouds.

“Hm? Oh. Just, uh. Giving Starry Night a go.”

“I feel like I should scold you about taking experimental tech home with you… But let’s be honest, half the stuff WE cooks up ends up in the Batcave. I mean, pretty sure the R&D department exists just for B to abuse it. So, is it working?”

“Like a charm.”

“Cool! You know, the whole helmet thing is becoming more tempting by the second,” Tim reevaluates with palpable envy. “So. Ready to go?” he asks, already pulling up a map of their routes on his wrist computer.

Jason looks over his shoulder and they study the patrol pattern Tim drew up: Jason’s course lit up in purple, and Tim’s in red. Their routes weave across the territory in a cock-eyed grid. It’s designed to let them cover more ground without falling out of sight of each other. The frequent intersections function as built-in check-ins. It’s a thing of beauty and Jason feels a fierce second-hand pride at Tim’s ingenuity.

Tim shakes out his hands and feet, takes a deep breath and looks over at him, “You ready for this?”

“Born ready,” Jason replies cockily, earning an aggrieved sigh and eye-roll from his partner.

They leap forward, like sprinters at the shot of the starting gun. They stay together for a few blocks before separating, though Jason is careful to always keep Tim in his periphery – a shadow arcing between buildings at the corner of his vision. His feet pound the tarmac rooftops, gloved fingers grip ledges, and toes kick against brick. He throws himself from eaves and swings on a steel cable. It’s more than exhilarating, the thrilling satisfaction of returning to something he’s sorely missed.

He doesn’t come across any confrontations before Tim and his paths cross the first time. They high-five before splitting off again. It becomes a game, at each crossing point to up the stakes as they slap each other’s hands without slowing their momentum. Jason is still trying to figure out how he can outdo Tim’s somersault over his head at the last pass, when his partner gives a sharp whistle. Jason veers to the left where Tim’s silhouette stands on a rooftop a block away.

“What we got?” he asks, more breathless than he’d prefer.

Nothing is aching or pulling wrong, but it’s hard to replicate the exertion of a night running rooftops in any gym. Especially when he refuses to take advantage of the Cave with all of its special equipment.

“Possible mugging.”

Tim points beneath them with a face filled with more glee than should accompany that statement. Jason raises his fist and they bump knuckles before dropping into the alley where three men have a pair of teenagers cornered. Jason thuds to the asphalt directly between the kids and their assailants, landing in a deep crouch, still conscious of his weaker ankle. Everyone freezes and he can’t help but chuckle at the slight gasp someone gives when he straightens to his full height. With all eyes sizing him up, no one notices Tim slipping into the mouth of the alley. Not until the three would-be muggers unconsciously take a step back, priming to run, and are halted by a polite throat clearing. Their eyes flicker desperately, torn between the fear of the unknown presence behind them, and the clear risk of Jason before them. In that split second of indecision, Tim strikes. He whips his staff against the skulls of the two closest to him.

“Well shit,” the third sighs in resignation.

He doesn’t even try to fight or flee. Instead, he tosses the pocketknife he’d brandished away and gets on his knees so when the knockout blow comes he won’t have as far to fall. Really, it’s the smartest choice he could make. Once he’s slumped on the ground, Jason drinks in the sight of Tim. His gracile figure cuts a dramatic tableau in the dingy glow of the streetlamp behind him. His staff dangles lazily from one wiry arm, teeth glint beneath his domino. Fuck. If it’s not one of the hottest things Jason’s ever seen…

He swallows.

“You didn’t even let me get a swing in,” he complains.

“Should have moved faster then,” Tim shrugs. “But really, I couldn’t have done it without you. That dramatic entrance stole the show. I wouldn’t have been able to catch them that easily without it,” he teases cheekily.

Jason responds with an unamused monosyllabic, “Ha.”

“Uhh… So like thanks. But, can we go now?” a high voice chimes in.

Tim and Jason turn to face the pair of teenagers they’d intervened on account of. A girl of about seventeen, with her hair in a long black braid, holds a younger boy close against her. They have the same dark eyes and rounded cheeks. Must be siblings.

“Oh. Uh, yeah. Yeah, of course,” Tim apologizes and waves them forward.

The kids give Jason a tentative look and do their best to edge past him while giving him the widest berth possible. He didn’t think his new suit was that more intimidating than his Red Hood get-up. He’s not sure how to feel about it as the kids scuttle towards Tim and he brings up the rear. When the boy steps into the lamppost’s circle of light his face cracks open in delight.

“Wow, Red Robin!” he enthuses, jerking on the sleeve of his sister’s sweatshirt. “I can see that Luis,” she mutters back, tugging him along just as insistently.

“So, what were you two doing out here so late?” Tim inquires.

The girl glares at her brother.

“Why don’t you tell them Luis?”

Luis’ face scrunches up. “Shut up Evie,” he grouches, jabbing her with an elbow.

“Mr. Rubbish-for-Brains here, was trying to sneak out to play Romeo with Lisa Farelli.”

Luis turns to Tim plaintively, “If you saw Lisa, you’d understand. She’s like, she’s like—aw geez, she’s just perfect man. I’m in love with her.”

“Well, true love is the greatest thing in the world, except for a nice MLT – mutton, lettuce, and tomato sandwich,” Tim explains at Luis’ perplexed look. Jason sighs when the reference flies over the boy’s head. “But maybe true love can wait for when it’s not one in the morning and there’s muggers lying in wait?”

“Thank you Red Robin, for being a voice of reason!” Evie exclaims in frustration, “That’s what I said, but clearly it doesn’t mean anything coming from me. Hopefully hearing it from you will make it stick somewhere in that thick skull of his.”

She emphasizes her point by rapping Luis’ head with her knuckles. He yips and dodges to Tim’s other side, using the hero as a shield.

“Where do you live?” Jason asks, interrupting their bickering.

Evie jumps, like she had forgotten he was there. She answers him over her shoulder.

“Just three blocks up, he didn’t make it far before I’d noticed he’d snuck out.”

“How _did_ you notice?” Luis asks, peering around Tim.

“I was up late trying to finish my geography paper and realized I didn’t hear you snoring.”

“Ha, ha. Very funny.”

They amble in the direction Evie leads them, coming to a stop in front of a brick three-story over a taqueria. Evie withdraws a set of keys from her jacket pocket and pauses.

“Thanks for helping us out back there. Um, I’m sorry to have taken up your time,” she apologizes.

Luis is more animated in his farewell.

“Yeah! Thanks Red Robin! It was cool. I mean aside from the almost getting robbed part. But like, I ain’t even mad. That thing you did with your stick was awesome! Hey, do you think I could get like an autograph? Or a picture? Yeah! Can I get a picture with you? So I can show Lisa I met a real live hero? Then she’ll definitely go out with me!”

Hero? _Hero_. Singular. Jason huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. Adding insult to injury, Luis shoves a phone into his hands. He heaves an affronted sigh. He can’t believe he’s doing this. He clicks the button a couple of times not bothering to make sure everyone is in focus, or even on screen. Tim looks good though. Even with the dumb cheesy grin on his face. Jason tosses the phone back to Luis carelessly, who fumbles it against his chest before catching it.

“Thanks again Red Robin!” Luis shouts around his sister, who is impatiently pushing him through the door, “And you, other dude!” he gets out before the door clicks shut in their faces.

“ _Other dude?_ ” Jason repeats incredulously.

“Ha, wait. Are you... Oh my god, you are so jealous.”

“I am not jealous,” he snaps.

“You are! You are jealous of my fans!” Tim crows.

Jason throws up his hands and starts walking away. He grabs the ladder of the nearest fire escape. Tim’s snickers follow him.

“You know, if I was in my Red Hood gear, that would have gone differently.” He grunts, hauling himself upwards.

It sounds petulant even to him.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m sure it would have babe. Just have to get your new name out there. Have you given that anymore thought by the way?”

Jason rounds the edge and stands. He rolls his shoulders to relieve the tension there.

“Not really. I mean, I didn’t really come up with Robin or Red Hood. I dunno. Maybe I’ll just leave it to the media. Run with whatever the papers come up with.”

Tim raises a cautionary hand.

“That… That is a terrible idea. That’s how you get stuck with crap like the Penny Plunderer.”

“God, you have a point,” Jason groans miserably.

After escorting Luis and Evie back to their family’s apartment he and Tim run across one more attempted mugging, three low-level drug deals, and shut down a drunken brawl that spills out of McCormick’s Pub before it turns into a full-blown riot. A quiet night. At one point a pack of police cars tear down Hull Street heading towards the docks. Jason leans forward but Tim lays his hand on his arm.

“Practice run, remember?”

Jason watches the lights and sirens until they fade. His shoulders droop as he resists the urge to give chase. At his reluctant acquiescence Tim brightens. He smacks Jason’s ass, yells “Tag!” over his shoulder and jettison’s himself off the roof. Jason gapes, chin falling far enough to bump the padding at the bottom of his helmet. Then he surges into action, throwing himself after Tim. But the little shit is quick. Quicker than Jason, even weighed down with all of his high-tech doodads.

He beats Jason back to Redbird and fires up the engine. Jason’s fairly certain Tim’s competitive streak wouldn’t actually go so far as to strand him out here, but he can’t just let the twerp win either. He eyes the surrounding environment, assessing surfaces, distance, and projection angles – not unlike how he reads the table while hustling a game of pool… He sinks his grappling hook beneath the windowsill of the building Tim had hidden Redbird behind. He falls into a sloping arc. The second after the cable starts to swing up from its nadir; he disengages the grapple, landing solidly on the seat behind Tim even as the bike starts rolling forward.

“What the frack?” Tim yelps, “You—you—,” he seethes, then shuts his mouth with a damning click.

He guns the engine. Their drive out pales in comparison to the drive back. Jason finds himself clinging to Tim for dear life, his esophagus plummeting somewhere into the vicinity of his stomach. Then Tim pulls the clutch in, rpm rising to torque peak, and lets it out quickly. The front end of the bike comes up into a two-up wheelie and Jason’s rectum clenches so hard he could shit diamonds.

The world still feels like it’s rushing past him when they slow to a roll into the garage. Jason flings himself off the stopped bike and chases a cackling Tim into the house through the kitchen and living room. He catches him in the doorway of the bedroom and shoves him up against the wall. Tim pants heavily, lips curled up in feline satisfaction. He reaches up to grope at Jason’s helmet, pulling it off his head. It hits the floor with a cracking roll and Jason thinks maybe he should be a little more careful with such a high-tech piece of equipment before the thought is wiped clear from his head as their lips smash together. The helmet is designed to take hard hits. It should be fine.

They’re too eager, teeth clacking inelegantly against each other’s, but it just makes Jason want to dig his teeth into Tim’s bottom lip more. So he does. The groan that spills from Tim goes straight to his groin. He nips a harried path down Tim’s neck to the collar of his suit and pulls frantically at his uniform, sinking to his knees. There’s a chance he tears the fasteners at Tim’s fly in his haste to worm the lightly armored trousers open enough to mouth at the growing bulge through the soft cotton of Tim’s underwear. Jason moans at the wet spot already dotting the fabric and laps at the salty stain messily. He can’t help himself.

Tim has had him desperate before, had him writhing on his back near tears with pleasure. God, he wants to return the favor. It was easy to lie there and get fucked. Gratifying to experience Tim’s enjoyment just in coaxing out his release. But he’d lacked the confidence in whether he could do the same. Things were going well, why risk rocking the boat? _What if it fucked everything up again?_ He’s not particularly sure it’s confidence that’s driving him now, even with Blondie’s confirmation that Tim wasn’t averse to switching things up—but he’s riding one hell of a tsunami of adrenaline.

Be a shame not to take advantage of it…

Jason tugs the waistband of Tim’s briefs down and plants a sloppy kiss on his pearling crown. Tim’s head thunks dully into the wall behind him. He looks up. Light blue eyes slit open above him. Jason grins.

“You better buckle in Babybird. ‘s gonna be a wild ride,” he warns, and sucks Tim down to the hilt.


	6. A Short Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim is happier than he can remember being for a long time. He and Jason are growing more and more comfortable with each, he still can't believe he gets to wake up next to his (snoring) adolescent crush most days. They're back on the streets fighting crime... He should leave things well enough alone and just enjoy the moment. But fears for their future plague him, sending him behind Jason's back to make provisions for the dealing with the difficulty of immortality. Guilt begins to gnaw at him as he makes more and more questionable decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Sorry for the long wait, I've been apartment hunting. So this chapter you get... some more domestic fluff but also dundundUN, the start of the plot there at the end. I know things are moving slow. But there's really only 1.5ish more cute chapters before shit hits the fan, so enjoy it while you can! Also, SpazzTerror please let me know if I shared this on tumblr correctly?

 

 

** Chapter 6 **

 

Tim watches the blades of the ceiling fan circle aimlessly in the dark. Jason’s face is tucked into his neck, one arm tossed over his chest. His eyelashes flutter against Tim’s skin as his eyes move under their lids, deep in a REM cycle. He’s been blessedly free of nightmares so far tonight. Tim should take advantage of that to catch up on his own sleep, but he can’t. Jason sleeping peacefully is somehow just as distracting as when he’s tossing and turning and unconsciously driving a knee into Tim’s gut. Tim idly strokes the hair at his temple. He smiles.

Wow. Just. Wow.

He’d always thought being pinned against a wall and taken was a fantasy. Something in the harlequin novels he and Steph read out loud to each other in the romance section of bookshops for laughs while they tried to find the most ridiculous erotic prose, not something people did in real life. The sheer upper body strength required holding a partner up like that for a prolonged period… Ha. Jason has _a lot_ of upper body strength.

That sets him off thinking about Jason’s arms. And chest. A euphoric laugh rises up his throat. Oh he’s going to be sore in the morning, but it was worth it. So, so much better than Freddie Prescott from high school gymnastics camp freshman year. There had still been a degree of awkward fumbling. Jason’s hands shook at the prospect of opening Tim up, but those blundering moments had been endearing and were smoothed over by soft chuckles from both sides. Once he was inside Tim though, the hesitancy fell away, reverence filling his eyes and…

Tim rolls his lips between his teeth to stifle another giggle. The memory alone is enough to set bubbles tickling up his spine again.

“Mmphgh,” Jason grumbles cantankerously, eyes resolutely glued shut. “You cheesin’ out ‘gain?”

Tim pouts, hand caught in the metaphoric cookie jar.

“Uh. No. Nope. I thought you were asleep.”

“Was. Can feel you gigglin’. Love you, but got tha fuck back t’ sleep,” he slurs against Tim’s collarbone.

Tim stiffens. Jason seems blissfully unaware of what he’s said, so he forces his body loose again and wills his racing pulse to steady. He takes a small wavering breath.

“Sorry babe, are you tired or something? Did I wear you out?” he sasses back as casually as he can. “Maybe you should work on your stamina.”

“Fuck you. M’ stamina’s fine. Got to sleep.”

“You did fuck me,” Tim reminds him. “And I think you should do it again. And again. That’s why I’m concerned about your stamina.”

Jason makes a noise between a groan and blowing a raspberry and rolls off Tim’s chest onto his other side. He buries his face into a pillow, but too late—Tim already saw the smile on his lips. He follows Jason into their usual sleeping position, turning on his side to tuck himself against the larger man’s back and draping an arm over the dip between his ribcage and hips. He presses his lips to the nape of Jason’s neck, his boyfriend’s breaths already evening out in slumber.

“Goodnight. Love you,” he whispers Jason’s words back to him.

He wonders if Jason hears them. He wonders if Jason even realized what he said earlier, still muzzy under Morpheus’ spell. It’s not how he imagined their first exchange of the dreaded L-word, but considering their first kiss resulted in Jason locking himself in the bathroom, this was probably best-case scenario. Tim has known for a while now that he loves Jason, but he’s been afraid voice it out loud. Jason has enough intimacy issues, Tim doesn’t want him to feel forced into saying it back if he’s not ready. So hearing it fall so naturally, so guilelessly from his lips in a moment of languid vulnerability... He is flooded with warmth.

There is no way he’s going to sleep tonight, too jacked up on the revelation of the hour. Usually on nights he can’t sleep, he sneaks off to the living room with his laptop and clocks another hour or two of research. But there is no way he’s leaving this bed with his _lover_ in it before he absolutely has to. Instead he inhales Jason scent and studies the feel of him in his arms; the slightly tacky heat between their bodies, the irregular texture of Jason’s scarred skin, and the fragrance of his cheap soap barely there under the sweat from their earlier exertions.

He wants to do something special for Jason. His birthday is coming up in August, just a few weeks away. He won’t want to make a big deal of it – is probably hoping for it to slip under the radar all together, but Tim is determined to show Jason he is not an island. Or at least that his island is part of an archipelago inhabited by friendly natives. Jason has improved by leaps and bounds in small social settings like pizza and movie nights. He’d clearly enjoyed himself at spa night despite his early protestations. The real trick though, is getting him to the point where he believes his friends and family actually enjoy his company and aren’t including him out of a sense of guilt-driven obligation.

Stephanie’s birthday is only five days before his; maybe they can tack a small observation of Jason’s onto the coattails of whatever shindig Steph throws. Not being the main focus should help dispel the brunt of the anxiety he might feel. Tim makes a mental note to call her and Alfred. Steph, to see if she would mind a joint birthday venture, and Alfred because he knows all of Jason’s favorite foods and will probably want to make a cake or something.

Mmmm. Alfred cake. The only thing better than an Alfred cake is a Miss Lucille pie. Make that three people he needs to call tomorrow. How rude is it to ask a guest to bring a dish? Alfred would surely frown at the notion, but he’s also fairly certain Alfred wouldn’t turn down a second chance to wheedle her recipe for bourbon peach pie out of her.

At least he has the gift taken care of. Tim smiles to himself thinking of the carefully wrapped item tucked away in the false bottom drawer in his home desk alongside Red Robin tech specs and other sensitive files behind a biometric lock. His smile dulls a shade when he thinks of the content of those _other_ files. He holds Jason a little tighter and presses his forehead into the other man’s shoulder.

“I love you,” he mumbles, a promise.

 

 

It is well past noon when Tim wakes. It must be. He doesn’t get out of bed without the incentive of coffee otherwise. Since Jason isn’t standing over him pressing a mug into his hand, he surmises the other man is likely still sleeping as well – a guess that is quickly proven fact by the sound of snoring behind him. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes and pushes himself up to a sitting position, wincing at the unaccustomed soreness in his bottom.

He looks down at his left. Ah. There he is. Tim’s adolescent crush bloomed into glorious fruition: hogging all of the blankets, head tipped back, mouth open, sawing logs. Tim’s grin cracks into a yawn. He sneaks his phone off of the nightstand and quickly sends a video to Steph. All is fair in love and war and this is payback for those photos of him drooling.

Tim’s snickers subside into fond consideration. Patrol and their post-patrol activities clearly took their toll on Jason. They will need to dial it back next time they go out. He rolls his shoulder and grimaces. Yeah, they’ll definitely need to dial things back a notch. He drags himself out of bed and shuffles into the bathroom, gritting his teeth as the pain between his cheeks flares and makes itself known again. He fumbles through the medicine cabinet for painkillers and swallows two dry before jumping in the shower where he rinses the stale sweat and sex from his skin and contemplates putting on a pot of coffee to drink through while waiting for Jason to wake.

In the end he dismisses that in favor of running to the coffee shop on Porter and 9th. Jason may not remember his declaration of love, but Tim does and that and a faint sense of guilt put him in the mood for pampering. He pulls on clothes, writes a note on the fridge whiteboard, and opens a can of tuna pate for Lucy so she won’t wake Jason up prematurely with her petulant yowling. Walking there is a unique sort of torture, but the ache diminishes enough that he’s no longer bowlegged by the time he can see his favorite barista Jennifer working the counter through the front windows. She’s wearing one of her signature scarves despite the summer heat, a gauzy light blue scrap that matches her hair. She shoots him a smile when he strolls in, bells on the door jangling.

“Hey Mr. Drake! How you doing this morning?”

“Jen, how many times do I have to ask you not to call me that?”

“Until I quit working here or you quit coming here,” she beams.

“Tim is fine,” he tries to convince her.

“Oh, I know Mr. Drake. But I really like saying _Mr. Drake_. It’s like free advertising. I say it loud enough for the other customers to hear, but not so loud they think I’m doing it on purpose. Curiously, they turn to check whether it’s really _the_ Tim Drake—and lo and behold! Then they go home and tell all of their friends they saw Tim Drake at Porter Street Patisserie and then all of their friends come in hopes of their own celebrity sighting and everyone keeps coming back because they’ve all gotten hooked on our Nutella croissants.”

“That is… ”

“Absolutely devious?”

“A great marketing strategy actually. You should check and see if there’s any openings in the marketing department at Drake Industries. I’ll put in a good word for you.”

“What? And leave all of this for a life of corporate drudgery?” Jen waves him off, but is blushing with pleasure, “No offense Mr. Drake, but I think I’ll stay here. So what can I get you this morning?”

“Got anything new?” he asks, peering into the pastry case.

“Yeah! Andre has been experimenting with lavender, so we have honey lavender cupcakes and lemon-lavender tarts. Scone of the week is orange blossom, and I’ve still got some blackberry Danishes from yesterday. 10 seconds in the microwave and you won’t know they weren’t fresh.”

“Hm.”

Tim makes his selection and Jen quickly bags it up and meets him at the register.

“The usual?” she asks, hand already floating towards a carafe of Ethiopian dark roast.

“Uh, no actually. A latte, please. Large. Thank you.”

“Switching it up today, huh?” she winks at him, “I gotcha Mr. Drake. Do you want to switch up teas too? We have a really nice jasmine that just came in. It’ll pair with the pastries a little better than Earl Grey.”

“Sure, yeah. Go ahead.”

Loaded up he makes his return back to the house. If the rush of water wasn’t a big enough clue to his boyfriend’s whereabouts, the impassioned shower-singing definitely is. Tim bites his hand and uses every ounce of stealth training at his disposal to move quietly around the kitchen as he pulls out plates and napkins. He doesn’t recognize the song, but the lyrics ring out loud and clear through the walls.

“ _Oh Mama, I’ve been years on the lamb and had a high price on my head! Lawman said ‘get him dead or alive,’ I was for sure he’ll see me dead_.”

Lucy twines between his legs in a figure eight and purrs trying to manipulate him into feeding her a second-breakfast. He ignores her and arranges the pastries and drinks.

“ _The jig is up the news is out they finally found me, the renegade who had it made retrieved for the bouuuunty. Nevermore to go astray, the judge will have revenge today on the wanted maaannn_.”

She meows plaintively and buts her head against his shin.

“No, you already ate!” he whisper-hisses and nudges her away with his foot.

Her slitted eyes narrow and Tim knows he’s made a mistake. He darts to the fridge where Jason keeps her treats to buy her silence, but they’re too far back and he can’t… quite… reach. She throws back her head and caterwauls. Tim curses as Jason’s truly inspired a cappella guitar solo comes to a screeching halt. The water cuts off and a few seconds later Jason’s dripping head sticks around the bedroom door.

“I uh… I didn’t hear you come in,” he stammers. His face is bright pink and Tim estimates it’s an even 50/50 split between being from the hot water and embarrassment. “How, uh—how long have you been home?”

“A while,” Tim admits.

“Oh.”

“I have food though,” Tim changes topic, trying to lure Jason out into the open. Jason fresh from the shower in nothing but a towel clinging to his hips is a sight to behold. “I’ve got orange blossom scones, some kind of lemon-lavender tart thing, and your favorite nutella croissants?”

Jason eyes the pastries wistfully.

“One sec,” he holds up a finger and ducks back into his room.

It is with great remorse that Tim listens to the sound of dresser drawers open and close, but he makes sure to wipe any trace of disappointment from his face before Jason reemerges in his _Zombies Eat Brains – Don’t worry, you’re safe_ shirt. He saunters towards the counter and picks up a scone.

“You trying to sweeten me up for something?” he asks, eyebrow twitching.

“Of course not,” Tim grins, shoving down a growing sense shame. “I’m trying to fatten you up.”

Jason is by far too good at reading the feelings behind his expressions and tics and Tim is only now catching on to his own tells. He very carefully resists the urge to chew on his lip or the inside of his cheek. He pinches Jason’s midriff to distract him. Or tries to pinch him. There’s not a lot of excess skin to take hold of there.

“Hey!” Jason yelps around a mouthful of scone.

“Make you my big booty bitch,” Tim teases mercilessly.

He has much better success pinching his boyfriend’s ass than his abs.

“Would you stop that!”

Jason swats at his hand and tries to skip out of arms reach, clutching the plate of pastries to his chest.

Tim gives chase.

 

 

“You got crumbs in my bed,” Jason pants thirty minutes later.

“You were going to have to change the sheets anyways.”

Tim is unrepentant and Jason is not done complaining.

“And on me. I am covered in crumbs and cum. I have to shower again,” he scowls.

“Serves you right.”

“For what?” Jason squawks.

“For taking a shower without me and making me miss out on seeing you all wet and naked.”

Jason swears and throws an arm over his face, “Fucking Christ, Tim. You’re joking right?”

Tim fixes him with a Very Serious Stare.

“That’s—” Jason barks with laughter, “What is—what is up with you lately?”

Tim freezes. Shit. Is Jason on to him? He’s been so careful…

“What do you mean?” he asks cautiously.

Jason removes his arm with a chuckle.

“I mean what happened to the Tim who dropped me in the tub and had to use note cards to talk to me?”

Tim laughs, instantly relaxing.

“I don’t know. I guess I’m just comfortable around you now. You know?” He shrugs. “And I grew up with Dick and Steph. You know how they are. It was inevitable they’d rub off on me at some point.”

“Hm. I like the first reason better,” Jason tells him.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he replies and leans up for a kiss.

Tim happily meets him.

“Soooooo… shower?”

Jason shoves him away, but he doesn’t stop Tim from following him into the bathroom and blowing him.

 

 

“Are you done?” Jason wheezes, slumped against the tiles on the wall.

“Yeah,” Tim nods from the bottom of the bathtub, “Yeah, I’m done.”

“Oh thank god,” Jason groans and turns off the water, “Because I don’t think I’ve got another round in me.”

He steps over Tim to grab a towel, wraps it around his waist, and drops a second one on Tim’s face. Tim sits up and watches Jason limp ever so slightly to the sink.

“You got any plans for the day?” he asks.

“No. No plans. I was hoping to get some more work done on the deck, but I gotta run to the hardware store first. You?”

Tim shakes his head and stands.

“Not really. There’s a couple things I brought home with me from work I want to review before Monday,” he lies, hating himself for it. “Are you sure working on the deck is a good idea? How’s your knee?”

“It’s fine,” Jason grumbles, leaving the bathroom to get dressed.

“Jay…”

“It’s fine.”

Tim raises his hands in surrender, “Okay, I believe you. But when Miss Lu gets back, I think you should let her give you that cortisol shot.”

Jason mutters something unintelligible through the fabric of his shirt as he pulls it over his head. So mature. Tim shakes his head and hunts down his own scattered items of clothing. It takes him longer to find his keys, which Lucy had apparently seen fit to bat off the kitchen counter and into the living room. Jason walks him to the door, his eyes dart around the neighborhood nervously as they stand at the threshold.

“Everything alright?” Tim asks quietly, hackles rising. He angles his face to make it difficult for anyone watching to lip read.

“Huh? Oh. No. Uh,” Jason rubs the back of his neck distractedly, “I’m just checking to see if my neighbor is—I think we scandalized Mrs. Grainger. I don’t want her keeling over because she saw me kiss you goodbye and had a coronary.”

“Ha!” Tim scoffs, “What? Let the old homophobe kick it!”

“I thought you were supposed to be all pro-life, don’t kill, no matter what?” Jason reminds him haughtily.

“Ehhh. Not if it stands in the way of you kissing me goodbye.”

Jason grins, “Uh oh. Your morals are slipping, Tim.”

Tim doesn’t reply. He’s too busy being kissed. And it is definitely a kiss worth risking involuntary manslaughter for, with Jason alternately licking into his mouth and nipping at his bottom lip. It’s good enough Tim is tempted push him back inside, but finally Jason cuts it off and prods him towards his car.

“Alright, alright. Get out of here so I can get some work done,” he growls.

“I see how it is,” Tim retorts cheerfully, “Desperate to get me out of your hair already!”

Jason flips him the bird and retreats inside. Tim swears the moment his boyfriend is out of sight the sun goes behind a cloud, the light suddenly turning gray and melancholy. He unlocks his car and sags into the driver’s seat, nearly gnawing his lip bloody on the drive back to his apartment. Halfway up the building he gets off the elevator and takes the stairs. He tells himself the exercise will help to burn off some his jitters, but it’s also an excuse to delay just a little longer.

He’s still feeling unready when he eventually reaches the penthouse. Unable to put things off any longer, he opens the door and glares at his desk like it might bite him. He brews a pot of coffee, psyching himself up with his own brand of liquid courage before sitting down in his ergonomic rolling chair and unlocking the drawer’s hidden compartment. His fingers hover briefly over the wrapped shape of Jason’s gift, and then move it to the side to retrieve the Project #YOLF (You Only Live Forever) files under it. He drops them next to the keyboard and cracks his knuckles.

With a single finger he flips the file folder open. Photos, chemical formulas, lists of latitude and longitude spill off the edge of the desk onto the floor. He had done his best to avoid the seed Will had planted in his brain, hoping negligence would cause it to wither and die, but it had only rooted deeper in his mind. Then last week he’d hacked into the computer in the Bat Cave and exported every file that referenced Lazarus pits.

He had diligently plotted each known Lazarus pit on the globe, even the ones Bruce and Bane destroyed or sealed off. After all, blowing up a spring may make it inaccessible but it doesn’t stop the water from flowing there under the surface. They’re less rare than he has been lead to believe, cropping up along ley lines and proliferating in the mountains. He’s writing an algorithm in an effort to recognize a more reliable pattern and pinpoint the most likely places unspoilt pits may lay. It will take time confirm potentials, but Tim has full confidence he’ll find some eventually.

He’s more concerned with untangling the confusing mythos surrounding the pits. As meticulous as Bruce’s reports are, they are frustratingly contradictory with no explanation of how or why the mechanics of the pits often vary from one to another. The pits only heal, not bring back the dead – except for when they do. If the pits bring back the dead, it’s only as mindless zombies – except for when they’re not. Using the pits can cause amnesia and insanity – except for when they don’t. If you throw a healthy person into a pit it will kill them – except for when it doesn’t. Tim’s mind runs itself into exhaustion trying to make sense of it all.

Going to the person with ostensibly the most knowledge about the pits is completely off the table. Tim can’t even think of Ra’s Al Ghul without slick oily nausea coiling in his stomach. Ra’s would want to make some kind of deal, no doubt one that would end up shackling Tim to him permanently. He wishes, not for the first time, that he had cloned all of Ra’s hardware before blowing it up.

The Cradle was bad enough, he’d rather lose a kidney next than try and sneak into Nanda Parbat. There’s no one on the inside of the League who could steal records for him. Owens and Z are dead. God knows where Prue is, and he doubts he could convince her to come on board for the sake of some tragic love story. Talia… He knows Jason had some sort of relationship with her in the past and he’s reluctant to reach out to her without knowing the nature of it. Jason is so close-lipped about it, he’s not sure he wants to know. She would also undoubtedly machinate things to put her in contact Bruce, something to be avoided at all costs. Tim has no illusions that Jason would be the only one furious with him for looking into the Lazarus pits.

He’s so desperate for information he takes to haunting corners of the internet where conspiracy theorists congregate to argue about ancient astronauts. Even using an IP address randomizer, Tim is wary of drawing attention. He wouldn’t put it past Ra’s to have data sifters tracking keyword searches for Lazarus pits, Fountain of Youth, Well of Souls, etc. Tim continues clicking on until he can’t stand it anymore. Most of what he is finding is completely useless crap, even moreso than supposed Bigfoot footage on cryptid forums. The few local legends and mysterious sightings that he doesn’t immediately dismiss as bantha dung are even less helpful than Bruce’s reports. He shoves himself back from his desk, chair rolling back a good couple feet with the force of it.

His eyes are burning and his head hurts. He should take a break and call it a day but he doesn’t want to quit without having accomplished anything. Tim blows his bangs out of his face and tilts his head back against the headrest of his chair. He doesn’t know why he’s feeling such urgency to get this all accomplished now. He literally has the rest of his life to find a way to be with Jason.

Maybe that’s the problem. Tim is too realistic to believe that any of them are really going to live that long. Vigilantes don’t die of old age. And if he dies before he figures out how to prolong his life (that is one of the weirdest sentences that’s ever run through his head), what will happen to Jason? He’ll just keep living through the centuries with only the unpleasant company of other immortal douchebags like Will and Ra’s?

Oh.

Oh frack, he’s an idiot.

Will. The man had been the one to hint that he could use the Lazarus pits to begin with. He has to know something about them, right? He sneers and digs out his phone, punches the number in spitefully.

_“Hello?”_

“Hi.”

_“Tim? Is… Is everything alright?”_

Tim rolls his eyes at the concern in Will’s voice. Sure, the last time Tim called him like this, Jason had been kidnapped by the Joker and tortured to death… But who does think he is? Acting like he has any right to be concerned for the son he abandoned in the first place.

“I need you to tell me everything you know about Lazarus pits.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line.

_“So you have been thinking about it. About what I said, haven’t you?”_


	7. The Shadow of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim meets with Will and learns less than he'd like about some things, and more than he ever wanted to know about others. Is the immortal genuine in his claims or is he manipulating them all for his own benefit?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Forgive my lateness. My hard drive crashed, I moved, writer's block, etc. I didn't like the chapter that was slated to be here according to my outline. I attempted it from 2 different POV's before deciding to shelve the outlined chapter completely and do something completely different. It doesn't feature our boys prominently, so bear with me... but it was a hella lot of fun to write. So MUCH RESEARCH. I'm actually going to have notes at the end for all of the historical & language references (if I screwed up the Arabic too badly, please someone let me know - I was taking straight from Wikipedia there so...), something I don't usually do because I am exceedingly lazy, but probably should more often. There is one canon divergence here from the events of _Death and the Maidens_ , and that is just the swap of a location name but does not otherwise effect the events that would occur in the original comic. Comic citations are in the endnotes.

 

 

**Chapter 7**

 

 

Will ignores the urge to glance at the time. He’s too old to be anxious about spending a couple of hours with a boy barely in breeches. It’s ridiculous. But after a thousand years of honing, his instincts are damn sharp and they are screaming that Timothy Drake is not someone to be casually dismissed.

He is capable of a focus and objective reasoning that would appear cold in anyone else. While Will has nothing but contempt for Bruce Wayne (he was supposed to have _succeeded_ where Will had failed, not fail Jason again - and how much lower could he have set that bar?), he grudgingly admits it’s a good thing he took Tim in hand before someone like Ra’s Al Ghul could get his hooks into him. Will imagines all of that intellect; all of that potential, without a moral compass attached and shudders.

“Scotch?” asks the bartender.

He drums his fingers on the bar top. He shouldn’t. His son’s _inamorato_ is keen; he should be at his most percipient, but god’s wounds this conversation is going to be an arduous task. A preparatory analgesic would be welcome. He loses his chance when the diner door opens and Tim strides in, his mouth a thin discouraging line. Will reckons he’s in for another black eye. He waves the bartender closer.

“Hey Lou, if this kid takes a swing at me,” he jerks his thumb in Tim’s direction, “Let him.”

Lou scowls and shakes his head in disbelief.

“What the hell did you do to piss off so many people?”

Will winces, ducking his head in a self-deprecating shrug.

“Alright you sad masochistic bastard,” Lou snorts in exasperation, “But I don’t like that this is becoming a pattern. He gets one free swing, but if goes for round two or breaks anything? You’re both outta here.”

Will brings his palms together in a gesture of thanks and readies himself for a fist to the face. He forces his body loose while subtly clinging to the bar with one had so he won’t spill from his stool. The blow doesn’t come. But when he sees Tim glaring at him with palpable disgust, he wishes the boy had just gone ahead and hit him.

“Hey kid.”

“Don’t call me kid,” Tim snaps.

“Sorry,” he apologizes breezily, “Have to admit I was surprised to actually hear from you, Timbo.”

Ohhhh and that’s pissed the tyke off. Tim’s eyes narrow to slips, his lips are almost white they’re pinched so tight. _Christ Pantocrator_ , what is wrong with him? If he wants any chance at reconciling with his son he should be putting his best foot forward not shoving it so far down his mouth his toes tickle his trachea. He’s never been great at controlling his mouth though. Being practically immortal fucks with your sense of self-preservation after a few centuries.

“Wait!” Will stands and reaches out, hand hovering in the air. He’s not stupid enough to actually touch the boy. “I’m sorry,” he says with more sincerity.

He indicates a booth. It will offer them more privacy than at the bar. Tim follows reluctantly. They sit and Will takes the menus tucked between the salt and peppershakers and the napkin holder. He holds one out to Tim.

“I’ll pay.”

Tim’s face screws up like he’s considering saying no just to be contrary, but ultimately accepts the offer. When Lou comes by for their order, Will gets the Reuben and Tim gets a side of fries for here and two burger combos to go. Will eyes his slender frame skeptically.

“Jason misses the burgers here. Since you know, he got _banned_ ,” Tim explains acidly.

Will takes a bite of his sandwich. Tim picks at his fries, dipping them generously into a ramekin of Sal’s secret sauce. After a few of the fries go down the hatch, his ire wanes enough he deigns to talk to Will again.

“About that… Thanks for not pressing charges or anything, by the way,” Tim says quietly. 

“I deserved it.”

“You did.”

Well, Tim’s certainly not holding back any verbal punches. He chews on his next bite longer than is strictly necessary, enjoying the way the sweetness of the dressing contrasts with the Swiss cheese and sauerkraut. Still, when he swallows the bite feels too big, sliding uncomfortably down his throat.

“So…” he starts.

“The pits, what can you tell me about them?” Tim asks in earnest, leaning forward across the table. 

“Straight to business then.”

Tim frowns.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware this was a social visit. Was there something else you wanted to talk about first? Waste time with small talk?”

Will’s lips twitch in irritation.  Yes. He wants to ask how Jason is doing. He wants to know if his limp is completely gone yet, if he’s sleeping better at night now that that clown is dead. Did he catch the last Knights game? How did he react when Gaunt knocked it out of the park?

“No. Guess not,” he replies sourly.

 “So how do they work?” Tim dives in. “I’ve read conflicting theories. Are they purely telluric? A naturally occurring chemical spring? Or is there an alchemical component? Perhaps an extraterrestrial element? I saw a reference to Dionesium, but can’t find anything to corroborate its existence in mainstream science.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Will cuts him off before he gets lost in Tim’s endless stream of questions. “I don’t know how they work. Or any of that stuff." 

“You don’t—Why would you agree to meet with me and talk about this if you don’t know anything about it?” Tim hisses angrily. His eyes dart suspiciously around the diner and he rises an inch from his seat. “Why the frack am I here? Is this some kind of set up?”

“Sit your ass back down,” Will gesticulates with the half-sandwich in his hands. “It’s not a set up. When you called you didn’t ask if I knew how they worked, you just asked me to tell you what I know. Which I would do if you would _sit down_.”

Tim plops back down and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Thank you,” Will intones with pointed politeness. “I don’t know how they work. I haven’t exactly much need to use one myself.” Thank God for small mercies. “But I know someone who does.”

“I refuse to work with Ra’s Al Ghul.”

Will stiffens. It’s an involuntary reaction he hasn’t quite been able to shake in the seven decades since his last encounter with the Demon’s Head. He knew Ra’s’ name was likely to come up. The man was obsessed and had been policing the pits for centuries. He had hoped though, that maybe Ra’s was one of the few Tim hadn’t encountered in his career as a cape and he could skirt around the issue without confronting that particular specter.

He echoes Tim’s venom in his rejoinder, “Good. So do I. And if you do anything to bring that churl’s attention down on my son… Not even the Great Detective will be able to find your corpse.”

He feels no guilt over the way Tim’s eyes widen or how his spine presses flat against the back of the booth seat. The boy isn’t nearly afraid of Ra’s as he should be.

He wants a drink. Needs a drink. He’ll have just the one shot now to settle his nerves and then wait until the boy leaves to finish the bottle. He is in control. He can show restraint.  When he looks to the bar though, he doesn’t spot Lou. He’s sure the bartender has just ducked into the kitchen to chat with Sal or something but his absence pokes pinpricks in Will’s composure. He contemplates leaning over the bar and simply grabbing Johnnie Walker off the shelf, but as good of terms as he’s on with the staff here that is probably past the point of permissibility. And unlike his son, he doesn’t have a partner considerate enough to bring home burgers if he gets banned.

His hands tremble as he grabs the saltshaker at their table instead. He unscrews the cap and pours it’s contents out. He draws the line for _‘alif_ through the crystals, then the swoop and diacritic dot of _bā_ _ʾ_ _,_ then _jīm,_ and _dāl_ and down the _abjadī_ sequence until they stop shaking.

He’d always thought it ironic that the first time he wrote his name it was not in the alphabet of his mother tongue. Neither noble nor a cleric, he had never learned how to read or write during his first life. It wasn’t until his second life, after crawling out of a heap of decomposing and desiccated bodies in a shallow grave outside of Acre only to find the army had moved on, leaving him uncomprehending, scared and utterly alone in a hostile land that he’d learned the magic of letters. 

An old man had found him wandering with blood dried brown still all down the front of his tunic and a new line across his throat and had pity on him for his youth and ignorance despite his skin color. He’d lived with him, learning the language and the culture, and eventually the beautiful flowing lines of script. Ink was expensive so he perfected the letters by drawing them in the dirt over and over again. To this day he finds the fluid tracing of the _abjadī_ soothing. When he gets to _shīn_ at last, he lets out a long breath.

“You and Ra’s aren’t… friendly then, I take it,” Tim says with stilted delicacy.

“No. We are not _friendly,_ ” Will laughs tiredly.

Tim takes his time before posing the next question, tactfully getting them back on course, “So if not Ra’s, then who?”

Will wipes his hand through the salt, erasing the patterns there.

“Her name is Nyssa Raatko.”

Tim tilts his head to the side.

Nyssa—I know that name. What do I know it from?” he mumbles to himself, tapping on his bottom lip pensively.

“She’s Ra’s’ daughter.”

Tim blinks.

“Ah, that would make sense. But isn’t she dead? Car bomb outside of Tunis.”

Will raises an eyebrow.

“How inconvenient, huh,” he deadpans.

Tim’s confused expression is wiped away with a roll of his eyes.

“Of course. She’s not actually dead is she?”

“No,” Will confirms. “And while she has some… radical beliefs of her own, she hates her father maybe even more than I do and for good reason. You could even say it’s what we bonded over,” Will flashes Tim a sharp-toothed grin. “At the very least rest assured she won’t sell you out to him. She may even be tickled at the opportunity to thwart him by betraying some of his best kept secrets.”

He thought the idea would have cheered the boy up but there’s a decidedly perturbed look on his face.

“What kind of radical belief?” he asks cautiously, “Exactly how radical?”

Will shrugs carelessly, “Willing to sacrifice the few to save the many. Harsh, but not quite as apocalyptic as her progenitor.”

His answer doesn’t seem to put Tim much at ease. One side of his face is sucked in where he’s gnawing on the inside of his cheek.

“You don’t have to agree with her world view Tim, just get her to tell you about the pits.”

Why did his son have to fall in with such straight-fingered people? Sure, it’s a relief knowing Jason has someone genuinely good looking after him, but damn are the corrupt so much easier to manipulate.

“It’s not that,” Tim shakes his head. “I just—Say everything works out: Nyssa shares all of her knowledge, I find a pit, or a way to generate one… But what I really need to know is how to use them without becoming a genocidal psychopath apparently.” He chuckles mirthlessly. “What’s the point of going through all this if a couple hundred years from now Jason has to put me down because I’ve succumbed to Pit Madness? Pretty sure that will screw him up even worse than going it alone.”

“Pit Madness? But that’s only temporary.”

Tim looks up, his eyes flashing beneath tightly drawn brows, “But every time it strips away a little more of your humanity. Your empathy, compassion. Look at what it did to Ra’s. Sounds like the same thing is happening to Nyssa.”

“The—the _what?_ ” Will stammers in candid confusion, “You think the _pits_ are what made Ra’s and Nyssa the way they are?”

Tim bites his lip and lets it slide through his teeth uncertainly.

“Well, yeah. Jason had it real bad at first too, it’s something he struggled with for a long time.”

Will can’t help but let a bark of incredulous laughter escape.

“He was a teenager! He was already hormonally and emotionally unstable before the trauma and the _brain damage!_ I dug up his autopsy; I know what that mymmerkin did! There were skull fractures. The pit wasn’t just gluing a flesh wound back together it had to re-stitch his mind! Of course he was fucked up a bit after,” he defends his son testily.

The faded near-forgotten red-hot anger of his youth flares in his chest. He thought he’d lost the ability to feel this deeply anymore, passions worn down by the slow march of time and the comfortable dulling of drink. Just over a year in this wretched city and emotions he thought were forever left by the wayside are churning up to the surface once more.

“The pits aren’t what drove Nyssa mad and Ra’s was a blood thirsty narcissist before he ever dipped a toe into one of those pools. He’s been finding reasons to warmonger since the fourteenth century before concepts like pollution and overpopulation even existed. Whatever cause he’s championing now to vindicate slaughter is a steaming pile of shit,” he spits.

He stares sullenly at the remnants of his sandwich. The fury dies out quickly, snuffed like a fire in a vacuum. In the void that’s left all he feels is dread. He can hear the approach of what Tim will ask next in the silence. The boy’s initiating inhale is the whistle of the executioner’s axe, the stool kicked out from under the hanged man’s noose.

“Will. Look, I—I want to believe you. I do. Definitely about the Ra’s always being an asshole thing. But… If I’m really going to try and track down Nyssa and go after the pits…I can’t just take your word that she’s trustworthy. If I go in without all of the facts it could put not just me but also Jason in danger. I need to know your relationship with Nyssa, I need to know how you know Ra’s. I won’t put Jason’s safety at risk so you can keep secrets.”

Will has to give Tim credit. His voice lacks its earlier mordacious quality. He is firm without being dogmatic, pleading without sounding weak. Will’s sure if he looked him in the eyes, they would be set in unwavering determination. So he keeps his gaze on his plate, studying the way the crumbs have scattered and the greasy smudges from the dressing.

“I—I first met Ra’s when he was still calling himself a doctor. I was a _murtaziq_ for the sultan he was serving at the time. He was known among the _al’atibba’_ for his knowledge in the nature and spread of disease, more so than as a healer. They respected him for his hands-on approach, for experimenting rather than relying on what others had written. I was soldiering for a neighboring shah when I heard he had turned on the sultan and massacred everyone within the city walls. Once he established himself as a warlord we ran in the same circles for a while until I left the peninsula.”

You can imagine my surprise when I ran into him again at the opening of the gardens at Villa Borghese. I thought he was another one of my kind. So when he invited me to his villa to chat over some _Grappa_ , I naively accepted,” his throat hitches so he moves on quickly, speaking in a rush before it can strangle him, “After I escaped… Well, the allure of a distant new continent to get lost in was too good to pass up.”  

Lost.  A better word would be ‘hide.’ He’d spent the better part of 300 years lying low – watching over his shoulder and doing his best to cover his tracks. Then blew all of his hard work to shit the one time he decided to take a stand and do what was right. No good deed… He takes a deep breath and cranes his neck up to face Tim. He clears his throat and attempts an apathetic air, even while his fingers twitch towards the salt again.

“And Nyssa?” Tim prompts. 

Will pushes his fingers into the salt, focuses on the sensation of the crystals pressing into the whorled pads.

“It’s not any better of a story,” Will tries to warn him off with a bitter smirk.

Tim purses his lips. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Will almost believes him, “But I have to know.”

Will sighs and pulls his index finger through the salt, drawing another line.

“I met Nyssa in 1945. We were in Buchenwald together.”

There’s a muffled crash from the kitchen. Lou swears under his breath and wanders back to check it out. The TV over the bar switches from a sports talk show to commercials. Tina, one of the waitresses comes through the front doors and sits herself in a window seat at the front to start rolling silverware in napkins for the dinner rush.

“Buchenwald? But… That doesn’t track,” Tim puzzles out, “I found your Medal of Honor certificate. You were in the United States Air Corps. I’m not a big history buff, but I know a little about World War II because my mom’s dad was a veteran. He was a POW. And allied soldiers weren’t sent to concentration camps, they had their own.”

“That’s true,” Will nods numbly in admission. “True unless you’re accused of being a spy. Spies weren’t protected under the Geneva Convention. Coincidentally the last time I saw Ra’s was the same day I met his daughter Nyssa. He was collaborating with the scientists there. And she was strapped down on the table right next to mine… So maybe I’m not the worst father after all.” He smiles frailly at the boy across the table. “Is your curiosity satisfied Mr. Drake? Are you convinced of Nyssa’s lack of allegiance to her father now?”

Tim’s eyes drift down to the cold fries left on his plate.

“Yes. I’m sorry,” he whispers again, “I had to know. I’ll leave you alone now.”

He twists as if he’s about to exit the booth and Will bangs his fist on the table, sending salt everywhere and points down. The boy is cowed and shamed now. He’ll feel that he owes Will something in return at least. He can’t pass up this opportunity.

“No,” Will orders, “I’ve just told you everything you’ve asked of me. Things I’ve been trying my damnedest to forget. It’s time for you to return the favor and answer some questions of mine.”

Tim’s eyes dart to the door, calculating whether or not he could make it before Will stopped him even as he warily sinks back into his seat.

“I—I don’t know. I won’t say anything to put anyone at danger. I—”

Will scoffs. What does the kid think he’s going to ask? Like he gives a bell-penny about all the cape and tights nonsense.

“Tell me about Jason. I want to know about my son. What’s he like?”

“Oh. Uh. He’s—well. He’s amazing. He loves reading. All kinds of things, but regency novels especially, though he’d be embarrassed to admit it. But I think he likes them because they’re about as far from his real life as possible. No shoot outs, no grisly crimes. Just witty banter in the English countryside and there’s always a happy ending,” Tim chuckles, softening up to the topic.

His whole countenance changes as he speaks, his affection obvious and contagious. Will finds himself oddly envious. His dalliance with Cathy had been brief; barely a blink in his long life, but he misses her suddenly with a savage pang.

“—A lot of hands on stuff. He plays guitar and likes to cook. He’s really good at it too. Actually, he’s pretty good at just about anything he sets his mind to. Right now he’s working on building a deck in the backyard. And we used to tool around on our bikes a lot before the uh, the wreck. Oh! He’s got a cat, right? He pretends to just tolerate her, but I’ve heard him baby-talking a few times when he didn’t know I was there…” Tim’s face cracks open in a wide smile at the memory. “I don’t know Will. He’s a person. He’s complex. Not a list of likes and dislikes scribbled on a bar napkin. If you want to get to know him, you have to spend time with him.”

“But he doesn’t want to see me,” Will reminds him feebly.

“Sorry,” Tim stands and grabs the to-go bag with the burgers inside. He shrugs apologetically. “But that’s your problem.”

He starts to walk towards the door and pauses, looks over his shoulder.

“His birthday is next week by the way. The sixteenth. Thought you might want to know since you have difficulty _keeping track of time_ and all.”

Will grimaces at the barb tossed back in his face from the last time they’d met. The scraping sound of the door moving over the floor as it closes behind him grates on his ears. Once the boy is well and gone, disappeared down the sidewalk and out of sight Will creeps back to the bar and collapses heavily into a stool.  He closes his eyes and rubs his face, grinding the heels of his palms into his eyesockets. When he finally pulls them away, Loud is looking at him with concern through the bright bursts of color.

“Scotch, leave the bottle,” he croaks, “And I’m going to let you know in advance—I’ll be needing a taxi tonight.”

 

 

 

 

It takes three quarters of a bottle before the fuzzy glow of alcohol overtakes the phantom pain of phenol burning through his veins. He stays in that safe hazy space for two days before coming up for air. The third day is a bitch. On the fourth, he manages to take a shower, comb his hair, and eat without throwing up. On the fifth day he finds himself standing in the lot of a Harley Davidson dealership handing over $17,000 in cash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inamorato - male lover  
> 'alif, bāʾ, jīm, and dāl - letters in the Arabic alphabet (using the Maghrebian abjadī sequence which is believed to be older)  
> abjadī - Arabic alphabet  
> al'atiibba' - doctors  
> murtaziq - mercenary  
> mymmerkin - a deformed or freakish person, often dwarflike  
> bell-penny - money saved up for one's own funeral  
> straight-fingered - honest, upstanding  
> The Villa Borghese opened in 1620 - if you ever have a chance to visit, TAKE IT! Stunningly gorgeous  
> 60% of all WWII Medals of Honor were awarded posthumously.  
> Typically allied soldiers were sent to special POW camps were they were treated according to the guidelines of the Geneva Convention, however in 1944 approx. 160 airmen who crashed over France were sent to Buchenwald instead because they were labeled as spies by the Nazis rather than enemy combatants and spies were not subject to the same protections under the Geneva Convention. Most of the airmen were later relocated to Luftwaffe POW camps, but at least 2 died in Buchenwald.  
> Buchenwald was home to Gerhard Rose, Waldemar Hoven, and Hans Eisle who conducted human experiments on the effects of malaria, tuberculosis, and phenol serums.  
> In the comics Nyssa is held at Ravensbruck concentration camp, for the sake of the story I've changed it to Buchenwald. This shouldn't have any significant conflict with how the action would have proceeded in the original comic. Also her death referenced here is from "One Year Later."  
> Ra's history is taken largely from "Batman: Birth of the Demon"


	8. A Long Expected Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guh. I never want to write a chapter with so many characters in it ever again.

 

 

 

** Chapter 8 **

 

“Scooch over,” Tim orders, “I have to fill you.”

“What?”

Jason whips his head around to stare at Tim over his shoulder. Tim waves a tub of flesh-toned putty in his hands and sits cross-legged behind him at the foot of the bed. He scoops out a small amount of the plasto-wax in his hands and rolls it between his palms until it becomes malleable enough to shape, then presses the ball into Jason’s shoulder and starts smoothing it into his skin.

“That sounded way more fun than it ended up,” Jason grumps, leaning back into his warm fresh-from-the-shower boyfriend. “Do I really have to do this?”

“If you want to wear that shirt it is,” Tim informs him placidly.

“I was told I have to wear this,” he reminds him, plucking at the fabric of the tank top – _Sun’s Out, Guns Out._

“Have to make the birthday girl happy. And if the birthday girl isn’t happy, none of us will be happy. And hot hunky man meat makes her happy.”

“What if I don’t like being treated like a hunk of man meat?” he whines.

“Then your noble sacrifice will be remembered,” Tim answers, and gives him a dry peck on the cheek. “At least you don’t have to wear sleeves and jeans in 90 degree heat like the rest of us. Not all of us have handy-dandy motorcycle accident alibis to explain away our scars.”

Jason frowns.

“Or you could jump on the bandwagon and claim you were in a boating accident as a child,” he suggests.

Tim snorts and raises his eyebrows.

“Aaannnd Dick was in a plane crash, Bruce was in a tragic snow-mobile accident, and Damian… fell off his tricycle into a ditch full of broken bottles?”

“Well you make it sound all suspicious when you put it that way,” Jason grumbles, “Though, ‘m pretty sure two out of three of those are true. Just sayin’. Hey—if I’m good to go, then why are you covering that one up?” he asks testily.

Tim gives him a sharp poke to the scapula.

“Because this one is too obviously a bullet wound to get away with.” Tim squints and tugs the strap of the tank top towards his spine. “And maybe this one too,” he murmurs and swipes a new glob of putty out of the tub with his thumb.

Jason bows his head, giving Tim better access.

“What if—What if I just stayed here instead? Y’know, and catch up on some casework. We haven’t made much headway in those cop killings. I could try and—”

“No,” Tim cuts him off flatly. “We haven’t made any headway because we don’t have any evidence. And besides, getting out of things by burying myself in work is my thing, not yours. You told Steph you would be there. You’re not getting out of this.”

He sighs and his voice softens, fingers pausing as he rests his chin on Jason’s shoulder.

“Look, you agreed to provide the music. All you’ve got to do is sit in a corner and play guitar for a couple of hours. Minimal socializing, free food. If you get really uncomfortable let me know and we’ll sneak out as soon as possible. Okay?”

“Okay,” Jason submits with a sigh.

Tim taps his jaw turning his head in for another kiss then gets back to work at making him look less damaged than he really is. When Tim finally deems him ready they pack up and load the trunk of the car with his guitar, bags of ice, and Blondie’s gift. He thinks he sees a second present poking out from beneath her gift bag, but doesn’t ask. It’s probably something personal from Tim to Steph. It makes sense considering they used to date.

Outside of the passenger seat window, the buildings grow tall and shrink again. He notes with amusement that Blondie’s mom lives in a neighborhood similar to his own; lots of small single-story homes with chain link fences dividing meager yards with scraggly grass. The Brown house is easy to spot. Not only because it is the largest house on the block at two and a half stories, but also because of the cluster of purple balloons tied to the mailbox. Tim pulls them up on the strip of grass that edges the street. A woman with glasses and light brown hair cut short walks out of the house and intercepts them on the sidewalk.

“Hi Mrs. Brown!” Tim calls out.

“Tim,” she greets, courteous but clipped, “Good to see you. And you must be Jason then?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, I’m Crystal, Stephanie’s mom.” She shakes his hand and turns back to Tim, “Did you remember to bring the ice?”

“Yes, Mrs. Brown. It’s in the trunk.”

“Oh good. Stephanie and Jeremy are in the backyard getting everything set up. Go through that gate and the coolers for the drinks are to the left by the grill,” she points and orders. “Gifts on the picnic table under the tree. I’d show you but—Oh, I hear the timer going off!”

Then she’s gone, rushing back inside as quickly as she’d come, screen door slamming shut behind her.

“She seems… nice?” Jason tries.

“She actually really is. When you aren’t her daughter’s ex. Or a vigilante. She never really got over Steph faking her death after the whole thing with Black Mask,” Tim explains.

“Ah. Wait, what?”

But Tim is already heading in the direction Crystal pointed. Jason grabs his guitar case and the ice and jogs after him. There’s a _Happy Birthday!_ sign hanging from a rotary clothesline Blondie and Boy-Blue are busy festooning with streamers. They’re throwing them at each other and getting more crepe paper on the lawn than on their goal. Their playful shrieks break off at his and Tim’s approach and Jeremy lopes forward taking the ice from him and dumping it into a pair of coolers.

“Sodas and water are in the blue, adult beverages in the red. Want something?” he asks, face flushed.

“Whatcha got?”

“Ah, some Mike’s, Coors, and some good ole’ Tiger,” Jeremy lists off.

“I’ll have a Tiger thanks.”

He catches the can tossed his way in one hand and holds up the guitar case in his other.

“So, uh. Where should I like… ?” he asks.

“Over here.”

Jeremy leads him to a folding chair that has been placed under a tree on the outskirts of the yard. Granted, the yard isn’t exactly the Black Forest of Baden-Wüttemberg so he’s still pretty close to the center of the action, which appears to be a bleached and splintering picnic table with a plastic cloth thrown over it. Tim adds their gift(s?) to the small collection already piled there.

Jason crouches down on the grass and opens his guitar case. He huffs at the plastic purple speaker and microphone left for him that look like they’ve been scrounged from an old karaoke game. Then he sits and settles the guitar in his lap, and focuses on tuning the strings and tuning out the activity around him. He practices a few chords and is acutely grateful that the Joker had started amputating on his right hand, leaving all the fingers of his left intact. He only needs two to hold a pick, but fretting requires a few more. If it had been the reverse… He’d probably be stuck making awkward small talk at Tim’s side all afternoon.

Warmed up, he lifts his head and seeks Tim out. Tim is standing with a group of girls Jason doesn’t recognize under the birthday banner. Must be Blondie’s friends from school. He catches his eye and the smile at the corner of Tim’s mouth tucks in deeper. Bolstered, Jason’s fingers start to move with purpose as he advances through the opening bars of the first song on the set list.

It’s not as bad as he had worked up in his head. From his position he has a full view of the yard and can keep an eye on the people moving in and out. Paranoid maybe, but he feels better being able to watch out for danger while everyone else relaxes and enjoys themselves. And he doesn’t have to talk with anyone this way. A few guests drift over and linger listening. They compliment him at the end of the song and he smiles and nods and starts the next one.

He startles a bit, fingers fumbling on the frets when Bruce shows up with a disgruntled Damian in tow. They look out of place amongst a bunch of college coeds dressed for the summer heat; too young and too old, in their polos and pressed khakis. The contrast is made even starker when they’re followed in by their elderly British valet. Bruce scans over the crowd and seems just as surprised when his eyes land on him. Jason tucks his head down with a shuddering breath and forces his fingers back into motion.

He’ll leave the monitoring to Bruce from now on. The man never really turns off the bat anyway. Not even at a backyard birthday party. So he keeps his gaze trained down. Unfortunately this means he misses Dick and Barbie’s fashionably late arrival and is caught off guard by the pair of blue and black sneakers that edge into his vision.

“So I guess it’s a good thing you got that guitar, huh? Must have been an awesome big brother who gave that to you.”

“You didn’t give it to me. Bruce did. When I was thirteen,” Jason grouses.

The toes lift as Dick rocks back on his heels.  
“Yeah, well. I re-appropriated it for you. That’s practically the same thing,” Dick chimes, entirely too cheery.

“It’s really not. Now if you can’t tell, I’m a little busy here.”

Obnoxiously, Dick just laughs at his dismissal, “Of course. Can’t distract the rock star. Sounding good by the way lil bro.”

A hand claps down on his head and roughly scrubs through his hair. He yelps and jerks back, throwing the spindly chair on its rear legs and very nearly toppling over.

“Fucking _dick-ass!_ ” he screams after his hastily retreating sibling.

“Don’t worry about him, Handsome,” a comforting voice soothes. “You’re doing lovely.”

He glances up into a kind brown face.

“Hey Miss Lucille! What are you doing here? Are you okay? I heard you were having some heart problems?” his words spill out in a tumble.

He hadn’t quite realized up until now how much he’d missed her, had worried about her.

Her face cracks open in a wide smile, “Oh your little blonde friend invited me. We got to know each other real well while you were on bed rest. She’s a real firecracker that one. You don’t have to worry ‘bout me.” She pats her chest, “Just a lil arrhythmia.”

“I think I’ll choose to worry about you all the same if that’s okay,” he counters. “Chas doesn’t have your touch.”

“They handed you off to Chas? Oh that poor boy. You haven’t been giving him a hard time have you?”

Jason’s face grows hot.

“Uhhh.”

“He is a sweet intelligent young man!” She punctuates her words with a swat to his head. “And to think I went through all the trouble of making you your own pie.”

“My own what—?” Oh no, he’s made a terrible mistake. “Did you say my own pie? You made me my own pie? What kind? I promise I’ll apologize next session. And I won’t give him any more crap.”

She stares at him over crossed arms.

“Rhubarb.”

Jason groans like he’s just been punched. She has mercy on him and frees one hand to smooth down the curls Dick had spiked up.

“Gahh. I heard a rumor there was more than one birthday going on. It would be unfair not to give the birthday boy his own pie, wouldn’t it?” she whispers, winks, and walks away leaving him with his mouth agape.

It should clue him off more than it does, but he remains unmolested for another three songs, lulling him into a false sense of security. Then he completely forgets when Jeremy sidles up and brings him a hot dog off the grill. Now, Jason likes a good sear on his dogs where you can see the grill lines, but this leans closer to charred. At least there’s ketchup and mustard to cover up the burnt taste a bit.

“Sorry,” Jeremy says with an unhappy twist to his mouth, “Got a call from the precinct and got a little distracted. I’d make another batch but I have to head out.”

Jason quickly swallows the bite he’s taken.

“No worries, thanks. That sucks, everything okay?”

The beat cop shifts on his feet. His frown grows more pronounced.

“Not really. It’s just been a real shit year for the GCPD. I’ve to got to go say my goodbyes. Excuse me.”

Jason watches Jeremy depart, stopping on his way out to sweep Blondie aside for a hug and kiss. She smiles and waves after him but there’s a tightness to her expression that makes Jason uneasy. Sure enough, almost as soon as he takes the last bit of his hotdog his phone buzzes in his pocket. He wipes the mustard off his fingers with a napkin and tosses it in a trashcan before subtly checking his alerts. Two more cops dead. Fuck.

Tim makes his way over and cants his mouth towards Jason’s ear, speaking quietly, “I think Steph could use some distraction. We’re going to go ahead and do cake and presents now. Want to take a break and join us at the table?”

“Yeah, sure,” he agrees, like an idiot.

He drags his little fold-up chair to the end of the picnic table, which is loaded with more presents than he would have expected, some of them quite large. Blondie is to his left, Tim his right. Crystal jogs into the house and appears seconds later with a sheet cake in her hands. Everyone erupts into raucous off-key singing as she carries it to the last available clear space directly in front of Stephanie.

“ _Happy Birthday to you, happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Stephaniiiieeee—_ ”

Jason strums enthusiastically, drawing out and embellishing the final chords for comedic effect. He trips over his words when everyone else sings out an extra set of syllables. What? He misses the chord change and stares at Tim., mouth hanging open in confusion. Did they just? Crystal sets the cake down and piped there in looping purple script under Stephanie’s name is his.

“Oh you fuckers,” he swears under his breath, hands falling away from his guitar numbly.

He watches Blondie blow out the candles and plow through her pile of gifts in a sort of fugue state. It takes Tim shaking his knee playfully to bring him back to the land of the living. He blinks. There is still a suspicious amount of gifts remaining on the table.

“Me first!” Blondie claps and shoves a present into his slack grip, “From one birthday babe to another.”

Was the cake and song not enough? Now this? He scowls at the guilty members of the party, focusing especially hard on Tim and Steph. If they aren’t the instigators he’ll garrote himself with his own guitar strings.

“Hey! None of that!” Blondie scolds, “You’re gonna sit there and unwrap your present and you’re going to like it!”

Skeptically, he traces the paper to where it’s taped down and tears back the decorative wrapping to reveal a non-descript white box. When he opens the lid, a metric ton of tissue paper rises up to smother him. He bats it away before it can cling over his airways and fishes out a bundle of black fabric. He unwinds it with growing intrigue to find a set of grilling tongs, brush, and spatula wrapped up in a _Kiss the Cook_ apron. His scowl starts to soften.

“I figured since you’ve got that fancy patio now, you’ll wanna be grilling out on it! And then you can invite us over for burgers!” she adds, beaming cherubically.

“Ahh, I see. So it’s not really a gift for me, so much as for you,” Jason admonishes, trying not to chuckle. “Well Blondie, sorry to ruin your dreams but ‘m afraid I don’t have a grill to—”

“Me and Babs next!” Dick interrupts, shoving himself and a large box forward.

It bumps into Jason’s knee in his eagerness.

“Hey, watch it big bird,” he growls, glowering at it disdainfully.

But Dick keeps grinning in sunny anticipation undaunted. Why is no one taking him seriously today? With their stupid smiling dumb faces. He opens his mouth, gut instinct to take Dick down a notch and gets a hard pinch to his thigh.

“Be nice,” Tim hisses out one side of a benign smile.

Jason pouts and rips the paper-coverings off.

“Oh. A grill. What a surprise,” he deadpans.

“Yeah! So like if you ever _did_ want to have a cook out or something—”

“You wouldn’t be invited,” Jason nips that idea in the bud.

“Rude.”

As per usual, immediately on Dick’s heels comes Damian. He stands and brusquely hands Jason a package. It’s flat and of moderate weight, but too thin to be a book. Jason unwraps it with more care than the previous gifts. All at once the irritation that’s been building between his brows since this ridiculous charade began is washed away in stupefied awe.

“Damian, this is… Amazing,” he enthuses honestly, “I can’t wait to hang this up somewhere.”

He handles the picture delicately by its frame. He doesn’t want to smudge fingerprints over the glass protecting the detailed pencil drawing of Lucy with Damian’s neat tight signature in the bottom right hand corner. He’d seen Damian sketching in his notepad around the manor when he’d been confined there, but the boy had been secretive of its contents – snapping the pad closed whenever someone wandered by. Jason had had no idea he was this talented.

“You’ve really captured her smug nature,” Tim muses, peering over his shoulder, “She already thinks she’s the queen of the house, once you put that up there will be no living with her. You’ve doomed us all.”

Jason elbows him not-so-gently.

“Hush up. It’s perfect. I love it. Thank you, Damian.”

Color splotches the boys cheeks.

“You are welcome, Todd,” he nods rigidly and escapes back down to the far end of the table.

Gracefully, Alfred takes his turn next, producing an elegant cream envelope from his suit pocket. Jason snags it with two fingers and slides his pocket knife under the wax seal to open it. Inside are two cards he recognizes as Alfred’s recipe cardstock. He reads the list of ingredients spelled out in his culinary mentor’s clean handwriting. The first is for a homemade burger patty and the second is for what looks like a dipping sauce.

“Is this?”

“It is,” Alfred reassures him. “As best I could manage. Master Tim brought me some samples and I’ve recreated both quite neatly I believe. You needn’t miss out on Sal’s Special any longer.”

Jason rises out of his seat and walks around the table to wrap the old man in a hug. He lowers his head to his shoulder and is suddenly struck by how much smaller and grayer this Alfred is than the one from his childhood memories. He clings to him a little tighter. The valet’s astonished stiffness at the public display rapidly eases and he raises a hand, gently patting Jason’s back in return.

“Thank you Alfie,” he says, voice hoarse.

“You are more than welcome my boy. It was well worth the time and effort if it brings a smile to your face.”

Jason drops his arms before he really wants to, but there’s still one more gift left. He recognizes it as the second one Tim snuck into the trunk. Of course. It’s more square than standard but he instantly identifies it as a book by its heft. He crooks an eyebrow up at Tim and slits open the tape at the ends. The cover is glossy and colorful; a collage of images Jason half-remembers. Superimposed over gorgeously bubbling enchiladas in bold font is the title: _Gotham Gourmet (and you thought Hell’s Kitchen was @#$%ing hot?_ ).

“What the hell?” he breathes out.

He starts flipping pages. These are his recipes. His dishes. His narrative, obscenities and all:

_Then put some goddamn blueberries in that bitching flax batter. Blueberries are the fucking beasts of the antioxidant jungle – they’re chockfull of potassium and Vitamin C and a bunch of other good shit that reduces your risk of heart disease. Eat flax and blueberry pancakes and live forever!_

“What the—when did you?”

“I have a confession to make,” Tim winces. It doesn’t sit right on his face since he’s obviously trying hard not to smile. “All those pictures I’ve been taking and recording you while you cook? Uh. Well. Yeah, I was never trying to learn how to cook. I was making this. Watching you do something you enjoyed made me happy and I—I wanted to capture that.” He gives up on trying to explain himself and shrugs. “Turn to the back.”

Jason obeys and opens the book to the back cover where the dust jacket folds over. Under the Meet the Author heading is a stylish black and white photo of Lucy’s head shoved through a piece of bread. He recognizes his own scarred knuckles in her fur holding her aloft and the line of his chin and grinning mouth right at the top of the photo where it cuts off. Then he sees the pseudonym Tim had anointed him with: _J. McCloud (of the Clan McCloud)_ , and loses it. He folds over his knees, wheezing.

He rakes his fingers through his hair and struggles to get control of his breathing. He uncurls and through the blurriness in his eyes can just make out the forms of disconcerted bats leaning towards him in concern. He wipes his eyes and chuckles. They probably think he’s having some kind of fit. He turns to Tim and grabs his hand.

“Thank you. This is… fucking hysterical. I never knew I needed this until now.”

He’s not usually one for PDA, especially not in front of Bruce and Alfred, but he barely registers their presence right now. He tugs Tim down into a kiss.

“Thank you,” he breathes into Tim’s mouth, “You crazy voyeuristic weirdo. I love— _it_.”

God he’s lucky. He’s so fucking lucky. To be with this man; this gorgeous, stupid smart, witty, kickass daredevil, considerate, observant, nerd. He’s so fucking gone for him. He wants to—

Tim reminds him they have company with a sharp nip to his bottom lip.

“Think of the children,” he whispers teasingly into Jason’s ear.

Jason relinquishes his grip on him with a sigh. Tim straightens and smoothes his hands over his shirt.

“Oh um. Also. This is an editor’s copy. I wasn’t sure if you’d be interested in publishing or not, but I showed it to a friend of mine who works in the marketing department of Penguin Random House and she showed it to her boss and they think it’d be a big hit if you wanted to.”

“What?”

“If you want to publish, just say the word. They want it. All the preliminary paperwork is drawn up if you want to go ahead with it. But there’s no pressure. You don’t have to.”

“Publish?” he asks dumbly.

“Yeah, haha. Only if you want to.”

All of the air in Jason’s lungs rushes out. Published. He’d always dreamed of being an author. And okay, so this wouldn’t exactly be the great American novel, but he could be _published_. Like… What would his mom think if she were still alive? He thinks she’d be proud. He wants to think she’d be proud. That's not a thought he's entertained in years, so caught up in the need for Bruce's approval, Talia's approval, his own approval. But what would his mom have thought? Would she have been proud of what he did as Red Hood? Would would she think of him now? He needs air.

“Okay, yeah. I’ll—I’ll think about it,” he says weakly, standing on shaky feet, “I uh, I’m gonna go have a smoke.”

Bruce finds him leaning on the fence behind the beer cooler. With a lit cigarette in one hand and a half-finished beer in the other he panics for a second, forgetting he’s legal and chokes. Instinctively his arms twitch backwards, unsure which one he should try to hide more. Bruce merely raises an eyebrow and crouches down to root through the cans floating in now mostly melted ice. He selects a Coors from amongst the sea of fruity lemonades and ciders.

“Um,” Jason swallows and clears his throat, “So. What’s up?”

Bruce’s eyes flick down to his can as he pulls the tab, releasing a crisp hiss, then back up.

“It was good to hear you playing again. I’d missed that.”

Jason doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing. He takes a drag on his cigarette instead.

“You didn’t come over here to compliment me on my guitar skills, did you?” he finally asks.

Bruce shakes his head.

“Everyone else had a chance to give you a gift back there.”

“Uh. Yeah, it’s okay. I wasn’t expecting you to—I mean, I didn’t even know they were gonna…” Jason mumbles.

Of course he’d noticed Bruce hadn’t given him anything. It was fine. It hadn’t hurt or anything. Much. Hell, he wouldn’t even know what to do if Bruce had tried to give him something. Maybe chuck it in the trash on the way out?

“I noticed that you’ve been riding with Steph and Tim at night. You don’t have your own bike?”

Jason flicks his ash off.

“Well yeah, Bruce. They’re not exactly cheap, in case you didn’t know. I mean, maybe you’re fuzzy on that concept being a billionaire and all but I don’t have that much cash just lying around right now. Spent most of it on the last one.”

“I thought Tim was employing you. He’s paying you enough isn’t he? Because if not I can—”

Jason laughs at the confusion in Bruce’s voice, like he was worried Tim wasn’t paying him a living wage.

“Whoa, B,” he heads him off, “Tim’s paying me plenty. It’s just, with all the physical therapy I could only do part time until recently. And the therapy ain’t cheap either. I’m not hurting, I’m doing fine on my own. Don’t need any help. A new bike would be nice but it’s a luxury. I can patrol just fine like I have until I’ve saved up a little more.”

Bruce grunts.

“You have always been stubbornly independent.”

“Me?” Jason crows, “Where do you think I learned it from?”

Bruce’s expression pinches. He rubs the bridge of his nose.

“I would refute that, but I don’t want to get into an argument. Not today. I—I wanted to catch up with you because, well… So you can use that money you’ve been saving up for something else. If you don’t accept it as a gift then you can… Consider it a job expense,” Bruce finishes in a grumbled rush and thrusts a keyring at him. “It’s not the exact model you had before, but I don’t think it’s anything that should give you any problems. It should perform satisfactorily.”

Jason stares at the key in his palm; the black shield with orange text ringed in shiny sterling silver. When he looks up, Bruce is gone rounding up Damian on the other side of the yard. So he slips out the gate and wanders towards the street where they’d parked. He looks down the street one way, then the other and his eyes alight on the black Night Rod parked across the road.

 

 

He hates how much he loves it. It’s a beautiful bike. Nice deep rumble and damn he’s missed being in the driver’s seat, wind rushing past his faceplate. They’d taken it back to Tim’s after the party and practically deconstructed it looking for trackers. Frustratingly they’d only found one (in the helmet) and eventually gave up and reassembled it. Jason couldn’t live at Tim’s forever. At some point he’d have to return to the house to feed Lucy.

He roars down the roads, straddling the line of what’s acceptable when it comes to breaking the speed limit until he hits the residential streets. He slows to a crawl when his house comes in sight. He pauses in front of the mailbox dumbfounded, engine idling. A sleek forest green machine is already parked in the drive, helmet dangling off the handlebars. Warily he toes the bike he’s on to the edge of the driveway and climbs off. He nudges a tire with his boot, taps the engine block with a gloved finger. It doesn’t explode.

Huh.

Oh.

Ohhhhhh.

No.

Bruce trying to buy his way back into Jason’s good graces with a jaw-dropping grandiose gift was one thing. As much as he tries to pretend otherwise, under all the different personas he wears he’s still the quintessential rich boy with terrible social skills. It makes sense that he’d throw money in lieu of actual emotional outreach. But Will too?

Jason circles the bike. He crouches and gets up close, peering into all of the nooks and crannies, shining a penlight under the wheel covers and body gaps. There’s an envelope tucked into the helmet. Inside are keys, the title, and a Polaroid picture. He fumbles the picture and clumsily attempts to catch it out of the air before it hits the ground.

He sits down, ass thunking onto concrete and holds onto it with shaking fingers. He turns it over reverently, gloved fingertips feeling bulky and uncoordinated. Faded, with an odd bloom of blue-green in the left corner, the picture isn’t great quality, but it’s more valuable to him than any of the masterpieces in the Gotham Museum of Fine Arts.

In it, a man and woman stand in a cramped kitchen under fluorescent lighting. Both are smiling broadly. Will is instantly recognizable, not having aged a day. The woman takes longer for Jason to recognize; auburn hair curls back from her face, her eyes are lined in shocking blue. He can’t remember ever seeing his mom so young and healthy. Her cheeks are round, eyes bright, lips pink and full. In her arms she holds a clapping crinkly-faced baby in a Cookie-Monster onesie.

Jason jerks the photo back when water splashes onto it. He wipes his eyes with his wrist. Fuck, when did he start crying? He pulls his phone from the inside jacket of his pocket and carefully slides the Polaroid into it’s place.

“ _What’s up? Make it home alright?_ ” Tim asks.

Jason stares at the two motorcycles parked in front of his garage.

“Babe, you are not going to believe this,” he laughs wetly.


End file.
